


Shadows on the Horizon

by gowerstreet



Series: The world which hides at the corner of your sight [9]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anthea could be M in another universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Conspiracy, Deception, Disappearances, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Martin Crieff is more than a driver, Martin and Douglas are Mycroft minions, Martin takes a chance, Molly is not a wimp, Murder, Original Character(s), Protective blokes don't always get it right, Revenge, Sherlock's network is wider than Mycroft realises, Whump, cabinlock AU, canon-typical angst, epic platonic bromance, unexpected BAMF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 20,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gowerstreet/pseuds/gowerstreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A difficult case strikes close to home. The past is an increasingly dangerous place to visit...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EntropicCascade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntropicCascade/gifts), [3littleowls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3littleowls/gifts).



> ETA 26/09/13 Huge thanks are also due to MorganRose, whose submersion in and knowledge of this series flatters me more than I deserve.

Of all the things he had lost in the recent coup, access to certain databases and systems stung the fiercest. Even so, he had left with all the information that he believed he required. Everything was now in place. In two days, the first body would be found. The second would follow at the weekend. By the end of the month, the Met would be overwhelmed, scrabbling for whatever support was offered.  
It would be easy to disappear amongst such chaos. He wouldn’t be missed by many.


	2. The Unidentifiable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another body for Molly. But down in the mortuary, something else is stirring, much to Sherlock's chagrin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffatt, Gatiss and the BBC. Anything I borrow will be fed, watered and rested at appropriate intervals.  
> All credit to 3littleowls for her comments and space herding (any mistakes remaining are my own) and to EntropicCascade whose gracious encouragement (aka polite nagging) keeps me focused.

“Right, Moll, what can you tell me?”  
Her smile dimmed to a more appropriate level as she focused on her initial report. “Much the same as the other one, I’m afraid, Greg. The severely burned body of a well-nourished man, six feet one inch tall, aged somewhere between the ages of forty and fifty five. It’s currently unclear whether he was still alive when set alight- I’ll have to run more tests.”  
“Any other clues to his identity?”  
“Difficult to say, other than the trace patches of relatively undamaged skin suggests that he may be of at least partial Northern European descent, although I’ll be scrabbling to get any identifiable DNA via regular means. There will be some, but it’ll take considerably longer. In the mean time I’ll start a dental records trawl.” She ticked another box on her clipboard. “Would you like me to put him forward for digital reconstruction? See if he matches any existing missing persons?”  
Greg smiled. Their hands brushed as she handed over the paperwork. “Good thinking, Batgirl.”  
“Does that make you Robin, then?”  
“No,” he replied with a joke in his voice. “Just damned lucky to be going out with a woman like you.” His hand encircled her wrist and he gently crowded her over to the back bench. “This case is going to be an absolute bugger. I’d love to see you somewhere else than this sodding mortuary.”  
“There’s always the couch in my office.” The lightning-fast quirk of her eyebrows and the siren glimmer in her eyes was almost enough to make him swoop in, scoop her up and well and truly dent their collective professionalism. He’d replay that idea later, over and over. He made do with sliding his arms around her hips and pulling her close. She kissed him hard and deep until the world shrank to nothing more than their hands and their lips.

They sprang apart just as the mortuary doors swung open with the vengeance of a bored child. “For God’s sake, Lestrade, put her down. Time you started using the walnut rattling between your ears instead of thinking with your balls.”  
Molly straightened up and scooted into her office, hair askew and face flaming. Lestrade braced himself against the bench and let his head hang for a minute. “Any chance of you being less than an arsehole, then?” he asked.  
Clearly not. Sherlock snorted and stalked around the room. “I wasn’t the one focused on the distinctly inappropriate exchange of bodily fluids in a sterile environment.“ He groaned like a lost soul. “She is still providing a distraction that your pathetically normal intellect could do without. You’ll be able to solve nothing if you’re permanently diverted.”

Lestrade turned round. His initial annoyance was now flirting with anger. “Just remember that the owner of this pathetic intellect decides which cases you can access. Any more unpleasantness from you and you’ll suddenly find that identifying uninsured drivers on the North Circular is the highlight of your day.”

Sherlock’s eyes began to widen. “You wouldn’t...”

“I could and I might. Now get your backside upstairs and don’t come back unless you’ve got three cups of coffee and an apology for Molly. You’ve got ten minutes.” Lestrade strode into Molly’s office and closed the door with a click.

Sherlock’s phone vibrated.

Manners cost nothing, and charm oils the wheels of human interaction, brother. MH

Stop hacking into private security feeds. SH

No need. GL texted me. Will you behave as requested, or must I enlighten the good DI and the rest of NSY about Mr Snuffles? The relevant photo is sequestered on my hard drive. MH

Hardly an appropriate response. Go back to ruining the country. SH

Are you still struggling with the concept of autocorrect, Sherlock? MH

He switched off his phone in disgust and bounded upstairs in search of coffee. He’d practise his ‘sorry’ face on the return journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are welcome. If you spot something I haven't, please let me know.


	3. A Plan unfolds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It pays to be a patient soul...

He waited until the fog settled before approaching the house. Privilege brought discretion and distant neighbours who chose to look the other way in fear that their own failings came under scrutiny.  
Even so, this one was wreathed in risk. The previous two had been men of little significance, even to their own families; all major achievements behind them, a precariously blank future ahead. Their jobs and their flats would be filled by more of the same; ageing, lonely, awkward, forgettable people.


	4. Disclosure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sally, since when has the Met been dealing with cases from Suffolk?”  
> “When the circumstances of a suspicious death are a fair match for a couple of weird ones on our books,” she replied, handing him the file. “But this one has a name."
> 
> Suddenly this case seems a lot closer to home.

Lestrade watched his team gather in the meeting room and realised that his plans for the evening were being rewritten in front of him.

Mo, looks like it’s going to be just Toby with you tonight on the sofa. Sorry. GL

Never mind. I’ve got a backload of Gok Wan to get through. M

Just as well you’re not his division. GL

There could be another reason I might want to watch ‘How to look Good Naked’. M

Sweetheart, you don’t need any help with that. GL

How kind of you to notice. Now get back to work. M

I’ll text you later if I get the chance. I’ll keep my head down, I promise. GL

Said the actress to the bishop. Bye. M 

Greg flipped his phone onto silent and headed towards Sally Donovan’s desk.  
“Sally, since when has the Met been dealing with cases from Suffolk?”  
“When the circumstances of a suspicious death are a fair match for a couple of weird ones on our books,” she replied, handing him the file. “But this one has a name. Andrew Reynard, 56, a recently retired senior civil servant from the Department of Justice. Apparent house fire. I know that name- why?”  
“I had dealings with him in the past. Statistical data review meetings and that level of crap. He is a past colleague of Mycroft Holmes at the Home Office. And he also happens to be the father of John Watson’s girlfriend.”  
Donovan looked across at him sharply. “So it’s out of area with a multiple Holmes connection. Are you sure you’ve got clearance for this case?”  
“Definitely,” he replied. “Come on, let’s get on with it.”  
_  
The bell echoed through the building, an insistent toddler demanding attention. Agnes checked the CCTV feed. Police. She grabbed her flat key and went to let them in.  
As she approached, she recognised a female voice. “Are you sure this is the correct address?”  
“According to DI Lestrade, Ma’am.”  
“Poor girl. Living in the same building as the Freak. I’m surprised she’s still in one piece.”  
Agnes paused to regain her composure. By the time she opened the door, her face had defused to neutral.  
Donovan had clearly done the same. ”Good morning. Miss Reynard?” She flashed her ID.  
“Yes?”  
“I’m DS Donovan, and this is PC Low. I’m afraid that I have some distressing news. May we come in?”

The next hour passed in a blur of phone calls and a bottomless cup of tea. Shock wrapped Agnes in a fog, clouding her brain and turning her hands clammy. She answered Donovan’s questions as clearly as she could, but it left it her feeling like an exhibit under glass, handled with care but on permanent view. No, she hadn’t seen her father for some time. Yes, they had had a difficult relationship recently, especially as her choices didn’t meet with his approval.

The cautious click of the front door and a rush of determined feet interrupted them. Donovan instinctively backed away from the charcoal grey hurricane, which blasted, into the room. Elegant fingers whisked away her cup and the whirlwind settled beside her on the sofa. A thinly muscled arm snaked around her shoulders and pulled her in.  
“John sent me ahead. He’ll be here shortly. Now in for two, out for two. Breathing might be boring, but brain death is worse.” A terse instruction delivered in a sibling’s whisper. 

Sherlock‘s eyes narrowed at Donovan’s gaping expression. “Anything else you need to ask?” She shook her head. “Then get out. Miss Reynard will be in touch as required. “

Donovan was itching to respond in a similarly hostile manner, but for once her professionalism took over. She nodded to the dumbstruck PC who had just refilled the kettle.

John met them on the front doorstep. Donovan glared at him. “Just as well you’re back. He’s been cracking death jokes. In front of the bereaved.”

“Thank you for your input, Sally." 

Agnes was alone, wrapped in Sherlock’s coat. There was not sigh of the man himself other than a series of random thuds and cracks coming from upstairs. John took a seat next to her, inching his hand inside the coat until it found hers and latched on.  
“Cold?” he asked.  
“Only on the inside now. I can’t even cry.”  
“It’s not compulsory. Now what did Sherlock say to that nice DS Donovan this time?”  
Agnes repeated the conversation. John couldn’t help smirking. “Did it help?” he asked.  
“A little.”

Sherlock thundered down the stairs, an overnight bag in each hand.  
“Mycroft has arranged a car to drive us to Newmarket. It will be here imminently.“  
John rose. “I’ll leave a note for Mrs Hudson. Give you a chance to get your things together, eh?”  
Agnes nodded. Sherlock’s coat subsided into a heap as she left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, this fic writing lark is getting addictive again! RL is bound to intrude soon, but I will update when I can.


	5. The gallantry of deceit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive in Suffolk. Sherlock's mind flames with deductions he cannot share.

“Wake up, love, we’re here.”

Agnes blinked and allowed John to ease her upright. They were turning off a village high street which felt almost familiar.

Crieff drew the car to a standstill and the communication panel slid down. “Mr Holmes has booked out the whole inn to ensure your privacy,” he explained. “He has been detained in London, but is expected soon. Anthea will help you settle in.”  
“Thank you,” replied John. He released Agnes’ seatbelt and stroked her face. “Come on, let’s make a move.” Sherlock slid out of the other passenger door and shook out his coat. He collected his bag from the open boot and headed inside.  
Agnes allowed herself to be shepherded to a quiet room at the back of the building. It was simply furnished, with pastelled walls, stripped pine furniture and what seemed like an acre of bed under a snowy duvet. It overlooked a neatly cropped back lawn which stretched back towards woodland.  
“How did Mycroft find this place?” She asked.  
“The current proprietors worked for his predecessors,” replied Sherlock, leaning against the door frame. “My brother has a remarkable talent for keeping in touch with suitable minions.”  
“You’re not the only Holmes with a network.” John hung up his coat and held out a hand for Agnes’. ”You need anything, love?”  
“Just my Mum.” Her voice came out plaintively small. John stood behind her and watched as the dusk deepened outside. “Will I do for now?” She leant back and soaked up his warmth.  
“Of course.”  
Sherlock watched their reflection in the window before returning to his room. His mind flamed with deductions which could not be shared at this point. He made a cursory inspection of his room, and found it adequate. Acclimatising himself to the creaks and groans of its floorboards was a simple task, as was plotting the most direct path to avoid them.

The purr of an expensive car drew him to the window. Richardson, Mycroft’s other driver, was handing a small case to a grimly dazed woman who had emerged from the back seat.

He debated the seventeen steps which would take him back to the quiet room at the back and thought better of it. A text would be more suitable.

MR has just arrived. I will speak to you later. SH

We will come down shortly. Thank you. JW

___  
There was a gentle tap on his arm. “It’s good to see you again, Sherlock.” He looked up from his phone. Marianne hovered next to his armchair in the lounge, a bundle of awkward energy. He acknowledged her with a blink, and gestured her towards a nearby chair. “I regret the circumstances, but not the opportunity. Tea?”  
There was a wry shake of her head. “The British cure-all has lost its appeal. A decent single malt would do more good.”  
“Allow me.” Sherlock returned a moment later, a crystal tumbler cradled in one hand. Two generous fingers of liquid amber undulated against the sides. “Glenmorangie, I am led to believe.” He guided the glass into her hand and sat down.

The first sip chased the tremor from her voice. “Thanks. Are you here officially?”

“I am expecting to be, although DI Lestrade will lead the investigation.”

“You’ve worked with him before.”

“We have managed to forge an effective working relationship,” he admitted.

“Are you able to tell me anything?” Her eyes pierced him.

“Not as yet,” he lied. “Dr Watson and I will visit the scene when Lestrade arrives.”

“They haven’t let me see him.”  
“I doubt that there would be much point, Marianne,“ he replied, softening his tone. “The fire would have caused a significant amount of damage.”  
She took a deep sip of the malt. “I’m not made of glass.” Clearly, this was where Agnes got her tenacity. “I need to see him.”  
“That will be arranged as soon as is practicable.”  
“Much appreciated.”

A delicate silence grew until the subtle tread of feet on the stairs made them look up. John hung back to allow the two women to find comfort in each other. He followed Sherlock’s retreat towards the bar.

“Any thoughts?“ he asked.  
“Nothing definite.” The second lie of the hour. “We’ll be taken to the scene shortly no doubt. Marianne has requested to see the body.”  
“A natural enough request, surely.”  
“Even in the light of recent difficulties?”  
John’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t think she’s implicated. She wasn’t even in the country.”  
“Of course not,” Sherlock’s tone was surprisingly vicious. “It would have more to do with proof of death.”


	6. Words on a staircase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why are you hiding from me?”
> 
> Sherlock's emotional distance has not gone unnoticed.

ETA? SH

Within the hour. Currently supervising the incident room setup at Newmarket. GL

Forensics? SH

Local team initially, with input from Molly as required. GL

No Anderson? SH

On extended leave. Family situation. SD with me. GL

How curious. SH

Not up for discussion. Leave well alone. GL

Boring. SH

Tough. GL

-  
Where are you? AR

Look outside. SH

What’s with the distance? AR

Family relationships are not my strength. Lean on John or Mycroft, if you absolutely must. SH

You’re as much my family as anyone. Get back up here, you loon. AR

 

She met him on the stairs. “Why are you hiding from me?”

Sherlock paused on the step below hers. It gave him an unusual perspective on her features. “ I regret if professional distance has been misinterpreted as callous disinterest.” Her gaze sharpened. A weaker man would have apologised under its force. Sherlock locked his eyes on hers and waited.

“This is going to be an unholy mess, whatever you uncover.” A small hand reached out and grasped his arm; a kestrel’s clasp on a heavier opponent. “And I’m not afraid, neither is Mum, however things might seem now.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’d rather cope with the truth than muddle through euphemism and deceit.”

He blinked first. “This will not end well.”

Her calm took on a stately quality. “ Then we’ll stand our ground. And before you start, yes I am still in a state of shock, and while I have a head full of questions, as just I said, I’m not afraid. I trust you to do the right thing.”

He leant forward and pressed a dry kiss to her forehead. “I’ll endeavour to be worthy of your faith.” She released his arm and let him pass.

“Good man,” followed him on a whisper as he closed the door to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to EntropicCascade for her insightful input on this chapter.


	7. Ash is Eloquent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Read the file. Share its contents with no-one.” Sherlock frowned at the implication.  
> “Not even John?”  
> “Not at this time."
> 
> After an unusual meeting with Mycroft, Sherlock's concerns about the case deepen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks as ever to 3littleowls and EntropicCascade for being on forensic reading duty.

“You don’t have to do this. There are other means of identification.”  
Marianne was adamant. “Dr Watson- John, if I may- we need to see him for ourselves.”

John nodded. He may have caught a glimpse of ‘told you so’ flit across Sherlock’s features, but chose to ignore it.

Donovan appeared in the doorway.”We’re ready when you are, Mrs Reynard. She looked towards John. “There’s room for you as well.”  
“Of course.” John slipped on his coat.  
Sherlock slid further into his armchair. “Mycroft has demanded an audience.” He stared into the fire. “No doubt I’ll still be waiting when you return.”

“I’d like to talk to him at some point,” said Marianne. “Will he be staying here?”  
“Anthea has suggested that will be the case. I will pass on your message.”

“Thank you Sherlock. We’ll see you later,” replied Agnes.  
Sherlock acknowledged them with a nod of his head. He watched the door close behind them over the top of his phone before sending his drafted massage.

MR & AR have gone to the mortuary. JW is with them. Where must I meet you? SH 

Our cars passed in the driveway. Get your coat and join me. MH

Legwork? SH

The antidote to slow traffic is walking. Wrap up and meet me outside. MH

Mycroft stood on the edge of the trees. “This way. There’s a pleasant enough track through here.”

Sherlock glared and thrust his hands into the Belstaff’s pockets.“I am astounded that your legs haven’t atrophied. What is this about?”

They walked in absolute silence, shoulder to shoulder, for several minutes. A single defunct lampost stood over a stone bench. Mycroft sat down and indicated that Sherlock should do the same.  
“All is as we feared regarding Reynard.” He handed over a memory card imprisoned in plastic. It glistened in the darkness.  
“Meaning?”  
“Read the file. Share its contents with no-one.” Sherlock frowned at the implication.  
“Not even John?”  
“Not at this time. This goes above his clearance level, and yours, I might add, but the necessity of your involvement has been taken into consideration.”  
“And what about Lestrade’s investigation? Will he barred from that also?”  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “If the paths cross, the situation will be reviewed. Cigarette?”  
Sherlock pushed up his sleeve. Two nicotine patches pockmarked his arm. “Not everyone gives into their impulses,” he sneered. Mycroft ignored him and lit two. He took a single, deep breath into them simultaneously, then held them at arm’s reach.  
“Ash is eloquent,” he said. “It lends itself to whichever narrative you suggest.” They watched as the cigarettes transformed from solid paper rolls into wavering columns of silver and amber flakes.  
“Why are you sharing this file with me? The protagonists would all appear to be dead.”

Mycroft glared. “ Appearance isn’t everything. You of all people should know that.”  
He watched the thought shuttle viciously through Sherlock’s brain. “Ohh.”  
“Precisely,” replied Mycroft. “Now we need to head back, before we are missed.” He passed a dying cigarette end to Sherlock. They ground them into the earth,a few feet apart before slipping away, as silently as they came.


	8. Disbelief is not denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft sits by the fire and waits for the Reynards to return. What he hears disquiets him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All due credit to ACD and Moftiss

“Marianne.” Mycroft sat on the sofa facing the fire. 

She turned to Agnes, as if to ask permission. “Go on Mum,“ Agnes said. “We can speak in the morning.” John put a hand on Agnes’ shoulder and they headed upstairs.

Mycroft stood as Marianne approached. Her head barely reached his shoulder when his arm folded rather stiffly around her. “I’m so, so, sorry,” he whispered over her hair. “Please let me help in any way I can.”

Leaning into someone stronger than her was a luxury in which she couldn’t wallow. She reluctantly disentangled herself and they sat down together.

“Forgive the inanity of the question, but how are you doing?” His eyes discreetly searched her face while she looked for the answer in the carpet pattern.

“Disbelieving.” Their eyes connected. “There is so much wrong with what we’ve seen tonight. For all of his faults and recent coldness, I cannot believe that Andrew would allow his life to end like this. Something feels desperately off- kilter and it keeps eluding me.”

Mycroft acknowledged her with a nod. “Have you shared this with anyone?”

“I’ve said nothing to Agnes, or John, for that matter. If I mentioned anything to the police, they’d put it down to the first stages of grief, as any rational outsider would.”

“But...” he gently prompted her.

“...But at the risk of sounding deranged, I do not accept that I have just been in the presence of my husband’s corpse.” Her eyes took on an uncomprehending sheen. “I am at a loss what to do.”

Mycroft stared into the fire. “No-one else need know your concerns at this point. I will be engaging an additional pathologist to assist the police in this investigation. Dr Hooper comes highly recommended, and has a particular professional affinity with Sherlock. She will be of benefit, of that I am sure.”

“But what if I’m proved right? Where will we go from there?”

“That will be a question for another day. Now would you like me to call Dr Watson? I am sure he could provide some professional assistance if you wish.” Marianne tried to smile, but her eyes wouldn’t join in.

“I’ll rest, even if I don’t sleep. A parent cannot allow themselves to fall apart when their child needs them to be strong.”

They stood up together. Mycroft held her hands in his. “I know you of old, Marianne. I hope you will trust me sufficiently to keep me in your confidence, and I will do my best to do the same for you.”

“Of course.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and he escorted her upstairs.

Sherlock unwound himself from his chair in the alcove and stared blindly at the wall beyond his tented fingers. The contents of the memory card weighed heavily on him. Marianne’s concerns only added to the burden. He saw a fragment of what might lie ahead. For the first time in twenty five years, he wished for the boring normality of an average brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to EntropicCascade.


	9. Remote Observation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft isn't the only one to utilise surveillance techniques for his own ends.

Technology was his strongest ally. It enabled him to observe and plan.  
He watched the feed as they came into view. Mother, daughter, daughter’s boyfriend. Close, supportive, nurturing, even in such distressing and tragic circumstances. All in the presence of their loved one’s corpse. Positively Shakespearean.

And the boyfriend, even though the title appeared ludicrious for someone pushing forty. Looking when asked, speaking when spoken to. Comforting but not controlling, or at least not in the public sphere. Very much the military cast-off. A pity, then, that he hadn’t changed allegiances years ago. Could have been a useful addition, instead of a growing concern.

He watched them leave the viewing room of the mortuary, then switched off the feed. So far, so good.


	10. A Developing Picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation continues.

“Morning Sir.”  
Lestrade looked up. “ Hi Sally. Sleep well?”  
She grinned. “Not so bad, once I got used to the silence. Anyway, we’ve finally got confirmed names for those two bodies in London.” She handed him the printouts.  
“Peter Watkiss. Fifty two. Recently made redundant from a minor finance post at Croydon Council. No family to speak of or much of a social circle. Identified via dental records.”  
Greg chugged the rest of his coffee. “And the other one?”  
“David Malcolm. Fifty eight. Former minor county cricketer in the early eighties, then a schools coach until drinking got the better of him. And before you ask, there seems to be absolutely no overlap anywhere. Their medical records have been couriered over, and I’ll start combing through them.”  
“Good idea, Sal. I’ll see if John can give you a hand. We’re also expecting additional forensic support to arrive later today.”  
Sally grinned. “So when is Dr Hooper arriving?”  
“Some point this afternoon, barring a zombie apocalypse and the meltdown of Greater Anglia Trains.”  
“Sir, that smirk is bordering on the unprofessional.”  
“Not if you’re the only one who sees it. Shall we catch up at about eleven?’  
“Sure. Tell Dr Watson I’ll be in the incident room.”  
__  
Packed your bag? GL

Sorted. Just dropped Toby off at Mum’s. He is not impressed. Mo

Aww. He’ll get over it. One of Mycroft’s people will pick you up at Cambridge. The gang's all here. GL

Even Anthea? Mo

Yes. It’s almost funny when the locals try to chat her up. GL

Because they got the same reception you did? Mo

Yep. They’re not her type, and neither was I. GL

Few are, although I think she has her eye on a certain redhead. Mo

Not Mycroft, please God! GL

No, you plonker. Martin Crieff. Mo

Good for the pair of them. GL

My thoughts exactly. See you in a few hours. Mo

Can’t wait. GL

 

Morning M. Any idea about your ETA? Anthea

 

Just left Barts. Aiming to be on the 58 leaving Liverpool Street. M

MC informed. He will meet you at Cambridge. Anthea.

Thanks. Will update when on the train. M  
____

Oi, you antisocial berk. Why no breakfast? JW

Thinking. Remembered how to make reasonable tea in room. SH

GL talking to A & MR. Off to the incident room. SD’s asked for my help with some med details. Any objections? JW

None, providing she keeps a civil tongue in her head. SH

Easily done if you don’t provoke her. What are you up to? JW

Reading through some unnecessary tedium forced upon me by Mycroft. Lazy git. SH

Hardly. His lights were on until half three. JW

That’s an average workday, or what passes for it. I do hope his incessant prattle next door did not keep either of you awake. SH

Sherlock, I’ve slept through your interpretations of several German jangling saucepan sonatas. Soft voices and a printer don’t really add up to much. JW

John, your lack of an appreciation of contemporary classical music saddens me. How’s AR? SH

Subdued, but clearly herself, but there’ll be worse to come once it all sinks in. You’ll get to speak to her at lunch. I’ve ordered some sandwiches for one o’clock. You will eat with us. JW

And if I don’t? SH

Apparently you were an adorable toddler. Your brother has photographic proof. All it will take is one text. JW

Where must I meet you? SH

The snug, just off the main dining room downstairs. And no shop talk unless Agnes brings it up. JW

Understood. SH  
___

“Dr Watson?”  
“Sally, please call me John. What have you found?”  
“This.” She thrust a faded typewritten sheet towards him. Hetook a closer look.  
“Hmm. Fertility test. Curious. He’d hardly have this done in isolation. Look back through, three months before, and three months after that date. “  
Sally pored over the handwritten notes. “Christ, this writing’s almost as bad as Lestrade’s. Nope. Nothing here.”  
“Try going through the correspondence pocket. It might have been done privately.”  
A few more minutes passed. “Found it.”  
“And?”  
“Looks like a full medical and acceptance as a sperm donor for the Milverton clinic. December 1982.” She passed over the letter.  
“Thanks.” John jotted down the address.  
“Bit strange that. Thought those places preferred to collect their samples from geniuses, rather than council bean counters,” she commented.  
“Could have been the handsome type. Attractive but relatively gormless. Do we have any photos of him other than the crime scene shots?”  
“I’ll check. He must have had something going for him then.”  
Possibly. Now let’s see what we find in the Malcolm file..”


	11. Strangers on a train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It lasted all of thirty seconds; a cleverly edited video, splicing between three shorter clips. A train sliding past the Olympic Park. The swing of a coppery ponytail. The glimpse of a woman wearing tiny gold cats in her ears.
> 
> Molly is on the way to join Lestrade and the team. Her journey has not gone unnoticed...

Anthea, got a new ETA- 14.30. Minor hold up in a pretty station somewhere near Bishop’s Stortford. M

Somewhat unexpected, but update appreciated. A

G, should be arriving some point beyond 3, allowing for traffic. What’s the room like? Mo

Fair to middling. The bed will be a lot more comfortable with you in it. GL

Looking forward to testing that out. SH is already texting me with analysis demands. Mo

You’d be worried if he didn’t. See you later. GL

Molly put her phone away and drifted off into her own thoughts.  
__  
Anthea appeared on the other side of Mycroft’s desk. “Sir, you need to see this.” She held out her tablet. “Arrived three minutes ago on your general office email, from an untraceable address.”

He turned his attention away from the upcoming G20 agenda. Anthea knew better than to pester him over trivia. He took the device and pressed play.

It lasted all of thirty seconds; a cleverly edited video, splicing between three shorter clips. A train sliding past the Olympic Park. The swing of a coppery ponytail. The glimpse of a woman wearing tiny gold cats in her ears. He watched it twice, weighing up the implications it presented. Time was against them, but a plan presented itself to him by the time he passed the tablet back to Anthea.

“Bring Crieff and Dr Watson to me immediately. I will speak to Lestrade myself. Make sure GERT-I is appropriately equipped.”

“Yes, Sir.“ 

Mycroft pulled out his phone. “DI Lestrade, I must speak to you in urgent confidence...”  
___

Stay with GL. MH

Why? SH

It appears that Dr Hooper has been tailed. Plan four has been put into operation. MH  
Is he aware of that? SH

Clearly more than you are. JW is with MC on the way to Cambridge. Do not bring this up unless GL explicitly speaks of it. MH

Obviously. What kind of idiot do you take me for? SH

The one I have known since I was seven years old. MH

__  
Greg was presented with a steaming paper cup. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Coffee, according to the despicable machine in the corner.” Sherlock took a reluctant sip from his own cup. “Come on, drink. I’ve just proved that it won’t kill you.”

“Said the witch to Snow White,” he replied, as he took a sip. “Christ, that’s foul.” They leant against the back wall of the station, staring out onto what passed for a scrubby garden. Greg eyed him suspiciously. “Why the niceties all of a sudden?” he asked.

“You looked as though you needed a drink, but it’s middle of the afternoon and we’re in a police station. Therefore, no alcohol available, if you ignore the quarter bottle hidden in the desk sergeant’s locker. So ‘coffee’ it is.”

“Has Mycroft sent you?”

Since when have I obeyed a dictum from my brother?” A truth wrapped in the costume of lies. It earned him a sharp sideways look.

“When someone we both care about is heading blindly into danger.”

Sherlock had no defence for that. His fingers clamped around a non-existent cigarette. “If it’s any consolation, she’s not alone on that train. There just happens an ex-Royal Protection Squad officer sitting opposite her. She sent me this.” He passed his phone to Greg. The screen showed a photo of Molly reading today’s Evening Standard, followed by an image of a plump woman with greying hair. 

“Why do I recognise her?” he asked.

“Margaret Spencer-Harris. Recently retired from duties at Clarence House. She was at Commander Willett's tedious leaving party.”

Greg began to breathe a little easier. “Does Mycroft know?” he asked.

“Not directly, although it wouldn’t surprise him. Elements of his department are still facing close investigation, which has only intensified with the events of this week.” Sherlock held out a hand for his phone. “I felt it better to provide some discreet additional support.” His tone softened when he registered the look in Greg’s eyes.“Molly is a great deal tougher than her appearance suggests. We both know that. Treating her like a china doll will only worsen the situation.”

“How can this be made worse?” Greg’s voice came out as a desperately harsh whisper.

“If she was that much of a target, she wouldn’t have even reached the train.” Sherlock turned to face Greg head on. “She’s been called in because of her brains and experience. They make her valuable. Doubly so because of her connection to you.” A hand in a leather glove lifted Greg's chin until he shared Sherlock’s eyeline. “I owe Molly as much as I owe John, perhaps more. She’ll be kept safe.” 

“She’d better be.”


	12. Always Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and John head out to meet Molly off the train at Cambridge. Unfortunately they are not the only ones...

GERT-I sped along the back roads at a pace rarely seen in a black cab. John sat on the backseat, phone in hand.  
Where are you? AR How much could he tell her? He decided on a partial truth. On an errand for MH. Should be back within the hour. JW  
Must be important if Mycroft has sent his best man and his driver.AR  
I’m not one of his permanent minions. Where are you? JW  
With mum and the vicar. Planning the service. AR  
All OK? JW  
Coping on the surface. Practicalities are useful like that. Just keep your head down. AR  
Will do. I’m pretty good at following orders. JW  
I may well explore that when time presents itself. AR 

Martin watched him through the rear view mirror. “Further instructions?” he asked.  
“Yes, but from a higher authority than the Dark Lord or his brother. “  
His eyes glinted with a poorly hidden secret.“I received similar from mine before we left.”  
“She’s scarier than her boss when she’s puts her mind to it,” admitted John. “ All laser eyes and minimal conversation. Puts me in my place on a regular basis. I might as well be the dirt on her shoes.”  
Martin shrugged. “That’s just the front she puts up. If she really didn’t like you, you’d have been given the whole blindfolded-and-hog tied-in-the-boot treatment, with Mr Holmes’ full blessing. I may or may not have been the driver on such occasions.”

“Well, good luck to the pair of you.” They exchanged smiles via the rear view mirror. “Just stay on her right side.”

“Oh, I intend to.”  
The traffic lights changed and they turned down towards the station. Martin pulled over to one side of the building. “We’ve got a few minutes in hand,” he observed. ”Ready?”  
“Oh God, yes.” John checked the placement of his gun.  
“How do you want to play this?”  
“As laid out by Mycroft. You stay put, and be ready to head off as soon as we’re in. If plans change, I’ll tell you, but no heroics.”  
“Understood.”  
“Good man.”

John headed into the ticket hall, milling through the crowds. He flashed the newly-printed warrant card at the guard on the ticket barrier. “Here to meet someone off a train.”  
“No worries, mate, come straight through.”  
“Cheers.” 

He scanned the platform and chose a suitable spot in which to wait.  
His phone rumbled. 

According to onboard CCTV, she’s in the second carriage from the front, right against the back wall. SH

Thanks. Am in position. Any details about her tail? JW

Average height. Deep blue hoodie. Mousy buzz cut. Yellow earbuds. SH

Is she still unaware? JW

Thankfully, yes. Let’s try to keep it that way. GL

OK. From now on in, no news is good news. JW

Understood. GL & SH

John stowed away his phone and leaned on the passenger shelter. He leaned on the edge of the passenger shelter. The train crawled in, heavy with passengers. He spotted Molly towards the back of the crowd waiting for the doors to open. Blue hoodie bloke was too close to her for his comfort, but there was nothing he could do until the train disgorged its passengers.

\--  
Martin leant against GERT-I’s bonnet, one ear plugged into Anthea.  
“Progress?” she murmured.  
“M spotted. Threat dressed in deep blue hoodie, yellow earbuds. Looks like a shaved mouse.”  
Martin huffed in spite of himself. “Any further instructions?”  
“Do not engage unless John says otherwise. Too public.”  
‘Understood. Can you run a number plate for me? AJ54 SEF. The driver seems to be taking an interest.”  
“Done. Silver VW Golf?”  
“Yep. Parked in a hire car space. Hasn’t taken his eyes off GERT-I since we arrived.”  
“Parked at right angles to the cycle stacks?”  
“Yep.”  
“Got him. I’ll refine the images to see if we get can get positive ID, but in the meantime, keep at tactical distance.”  
“Will do. Train’s just arrived.”  
“OK. Keep me informed.”  
\--  
Molly shouldered her bag and stepped onto the platform, determined to escape the crush as quickly as possible. The momentum of the crowd swept her along the platform towards the ticket hall. A hand brushed the back of her coat without apology. It put her on edge. She was on the verge of turning round to object when a friendly voice drifted into her ear.

“This way, Molly.” John dived between the passengers and pulled her into a hug. “Apologies for not being Greg, but I was under orders from the Holmes Collective to meet you off the train. Martin Crieff‘s out front in GERT-I.”

Molly pulled away. “Good to see you too, John, but why are you really here?”

John sighed. There was no point lying to her. “Mycroft believes you’ve been tailed since Liverpool Street, and the threat is still here,” he whispered directly into her ear. If I stumble, get out to Martin.”

Molly gave him a sideways look. “Not leaving you anywhere.” They allowed the crowd to sweep them along to the ticket hall. 

A dark blue shape loomed at the corner of John’s vision. Instinctively he moved Molly to his other side just as he felt a sharp scratch in his neck. He pushed her away. “Not up to you. Run,” he hissed at her frantically. Despairingly, she did so.

He heard a scuffle and a shout behind him. “Oh no you don’t, Sunny Jim!” A woman’s voice, clearly used to giving orders. As he swayed towards the ground, John caught a glimpse of the man in the blue hoodie lying on the platform behind him, wrists pinioned against his back with plastic ties.  
Someone grabbed his shoulders and guided him to the ground. “Got him, Dr Watson. Help’s coming.”

He tried to speak, but his mouth refused to cooperate. A hand cushioned his face.

“Shh. All safe. Sherlock sent me.” That voice again. The face of a grey-haired woman swam briefly into view before all his senses left him.


	13. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Molly’s OK but John isn’t. Someone aimed for her and got him instead.”
> 
> A kidnap attempt is foiled, but at a cost...

“Martin, get in there now.” Anthea's voice had an uneasy insistence.  
“ETA thirty seconds. What happened?”  
“Molly’s OK but John isn’t. Someone aimed for her and got him instead.”  
“Oh hell.” Martin sprinted across towards the building. “Details?”  
“He got in the way of a syringe. His attacker's been neutralised by Sherlock’s plant. Ambulance should be there in two minutes.”  
“Further instructions?”  
“Take Molly to the Transport Police Station. Directly ahead of you.”  
“Got it. Where are you?”  
“We'll head to Addenbrookes. Give your statements and meet us there.”  
“Understood.”  
He flashed his identity card and was let through. Station staff were ushering the crowds away from the scene. Two policemen were hustling a handcuffed man through a door in the near distance. Molly was kneeling on the ground next to John, who lay frighteningly still under a grey blanket. She spotted Martin, and her reserve began to drain away. “I’m not leaving until the paramedics get here,” she insisted.  
“They’ll be here soon,” said a grey haired woman whose hand rested on John’s neck. She looked up towards Martin. “Mr Crieff? DI Margaret Spencer-Harris. I’m repaying a favour of Sherlock’s." She extended a hand to him, which he shook. "I'll debrief you and your boss later.”  
“Thanks. How is he doing?”  
“Difficult to say, but going by the pen we found, it could be insulin. The sooner helps arrives, the better.”  
Two green shapes were moving through the crowd. Molly struggled to her feet, giving them room to work. “Where are we going?” she asked.  
Martin wrapped an arm around her. “Somewhere safer,” he replied in a soft voice.  
Their progress towards the Police Station was at her slow and awkward pace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the length of this - more coming soon, I promise!


	14. Fuel and Transport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events move on in Cambridge following the attack on John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone else reading this has a working knowledge of the Croydon of the Fens, they will appreciate the fact that it would take Mycroftian tactics to get between places as swiftly, but this fic is free of the pointless roadworks and developments of a more mundane universe.

Sergeant McDonald looked up as the heavy door opened. It was a couple, barely older than his own kids. “Mr Crieff and Dr Hooper ?” he asked. The man nodded. “The station manager’s been in touch. Come with me. I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll go from there.“  
“That would be very kind,” replied the young man. “Is there somewhere we could sit down? “  
“Of course. Just through here.”  
He led them to a side room, then headed off towards the kettle.

Molly subsided onto the padded bench which ran the length of the room. Martin’s arm around her shoulder was the only thing keeping her upright. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to leach the warmth he offered.

The tea, when it arrived, was strong, steaming and sweet. Sergeant McDonald left them on the table within reach. “When you’re feeling a little more like yourselves, I’ll ask for your statements.”  
Martin thanked him, and they were left alone again.

“Right, Moll, time to sit up.” He guided her upright and pressed a mug into her hand. She took a sip. “Better?’ he asked.  
“A little.”  
“Well, keep drinking. I’ll get to mine in a moment.” He pulled out his phone.

Update? MC

The response was immediate.

I will remain with MR. Anthea driving to Cam. Will drop off GL shortly. No update on JW other than a positive transferral to ICU. Wait for further instructions. MH

Understood, Sir. MC 

Molly’s voice came as a whisper. “Any news of John?”

“Nothing, other than he was transferred to ICU.” He picked up his tea and took a long drink. Molly edged next to him again. “Greg should be here shortly.”

They finished their tea in silence.

Outside, there was the hurried braking of an expensive car. A car door was opened and slammed. A powerful engine growled away into the distance. There was a brief exchange of voices before the door opened and Greg appeared, outwardly calm, inwardly churning.  
Martin slipped past him with a nod before heading back towards Sgt McDonald’s desk, closing the door behind him.  
“I’d like to write my statement now, if I may.”  
Sgt McDonald looked up. “Follow me.”  
\----  
Driving the Jaguar would have been a rare pleasure, had it been under different circumstances. Today Anthea was merely thankful for its responsiveness, as it devoured the miles. Traffic saw them coming and shrank back from their speed and the hastily-applied blue light on the roof, even when they reached the outskirts of Cambridge.

The backseat bristled with suppressed, unspeakable anxieties. Agnes stared at the letterbox of road visible through the windscreen. She winced so hard when Sherlock’s phone beeped that he swiftly silenced it, although the flow of messages never ceased. His left thumb found her wrist and traced a pattern on it, which help to sooth them both, at least on the outside. It distracted him from the rolling sea of dread in his gut which threatened to spill its contents at the slightest invitation.

The message he had been waiting for arrived. He read it, forwarded an appropriate response  
and leant back in the seat, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Greg’s glance darted over Agnes’ head. “Dare I ask?” he asked.  
Sherlock blinked a couple of times before replying. “Mycroft. John has been settled into ICU. We’re officially confirmed as his next of kin, thanks to some long-distance meddling.” His hand squeezed over Agnes’. ”At last he’s good for something.” The atmosphere around them lightened slightly.

Anthea took a sharp right turn. “We'll be at station in around a minute,” she announced. “ DI Lestrade, if you could keep us updated where possible? I've already passed on the information Crieff relayed to me earlier.”

“I will, if you’ll do the same. Thanks, Anthea.” He turned to Agnes. “John’s been through worse than this, thanks to the Army and our consultant friend here. I’ll see you later.”

“Sure.” He slid out of the door and slammed it shut. Anthea watched him step away from the car before she drove off.

Sherlock returned his attention to his phone. 

What else can you tell me? SH

Assailant detained at Parkside Custody Suite. DI Spencer-Harris has been given authority to interrogate. Suspicious car identified by MC impounded also, although driver absconded. CCTV evidence accumulating. What’s your ETA for Addenbrookes? MH

Seven minutes. Perhaps five or less if the lights behave. SH

They will. You’ll be there in four. MH  
___  
It was clear to Agnes that Sherlock was running on fumes. She handed him a cereal bar from her bag. “ Eat this now. I’d prefer to be dealing with one casualty at a time.”  
He glared at her. There’d be Haagen Daz in Hell first.  
“OK.” She snapped the bar in two and handed it to him. “Half of it. Eat.”  
Sherlock did so with exceedingly bad grace. It coated his mouth like cardboard and scented wood shavings, but he knew better than to object. Allowing Agnes to boss him around gave her an alternative focus than the reality of John’s current state. Better to irritate her further before her mind wandered towards what waited for them in ICU.  
“Oi.” He poked her gently in the ribs. “I’ve eaten my half of this synthetic detritus- now it’s your turn.”  
Agnes raised her brows. “I ate my lunch - you sniffed at yours and took an exception to the lettuce. I’ve broken this in half so that it wouldn’t overwhelm you.”  
“Overwhelm me?” His sneer was almost comical as he snatched the remaining piece. It really stood no chance against the fury of Sherlock’s jaws and digestive system. He seethed with barely mock annoyance. “Better?” he hissed.  
“You will be,” she replied coolly.

Anthea braked outside the entrance to the hospital concourse. She looked directly at Sherlock through the rear view mirror. “I’ll meet you inside once I’ve received further instructions.”  
“Thank you,” he replied. He pulled Agnes from the car. If he grasped her hand as though he was towing a toddler, she didn’t complain.


	15. Hospital Corners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t fake my death to chase murderers halfway around the world and get blown up myself, for you to finish up here. This is too bloody ordinary for you. Come on, John. You spend far too much time asleep as it is. I don’t need to know the structure of the solar system to know you’re the most vital part of mine. Wake up. Please.”
> 
> The impact of the assault on John hits home...

Mycroft sent the same message in three different directions. He sipped his coffee while waiting for the responses to arrive.

GL with Molly. They will be in touch. Statements written and submitted. Awaiting further instructions. MC

JW continuing to respond to treatment. SH

AR? MH

With me. On our way to see John. She tricked me into eating. SH

About time someone did. MH

Sir, meeting arranged with DI MSH and local force. Interrogation of assailant continuing at Parkside. Timing details to be finalised. A 

Thank you. As expected. DS Donovan remaining with MR on close protection, with Richardson as backup. MH

Crieff, I am about to arrive into Cambridge Station on something akin to a bus on rails. Almost deserted, thankfully. MH

Where to, Sir? MC

Addenbrookes, initially. MH

__

“So where now?” asked Greg. They stood outside the station, arms linked.  
“I’d like to see John, if they’ll let me.” Molly was beginning to sound more like herself again, he noted. ”...but I’d rather take the bus. I could do with a chunk of normality.”  
“Come on, then.”  
There was something to be said for the noise and commotion that only a bus filled with language students and school kids could provide. It made them feel blessedly invisible. Greg felt his phone vibrate several times, but left it alone. They needed this bubble before everything came crashing down around them again.  
__  
Agnes’ pulse throbbed wildly against his fingers as they strode through the concourse. He only released her hand when they reached the lift.  
“Phone off,” she reminded him.  
Sherlock frowned. “What?”  
“Phone. Off. Before we reach the ward.”  
He rolled his eyebrows but did so, showing her the unresponsive screen. “What about yours?” he demanded.  
“It’s been off since before we left the car.”

The ward team were expecting them. John was in a side room. Two drips fed the cannula in his arm. A developing bruise glowered across his cheekbone. Sherlock strained his eyes to see the faint regularity of breaths supported by the oxygen feed. He felt Agnes sway gently backwards on her heels. His arm steadied her.  
“They still haven’t bothered to change the decor around here,” he grumbled. “John’s fortunate that he can’t see these walls. He loathes institutional lilac.”  
“Can’t say I remember much about them,” she replied. “They shifted me elsewhere before my aesthetics recovered.” She edged her elbow backwards. “Not that downstairs is much to write home about either. Come on, sit down. I’ll get us both some water. “ She ruffled his hair as he sank into the seat, Her hand on his head was a comfort rather than an annoyance, even if he would never admit it.

He cushioned John’s hand in his palm, tracing lazy swirls across it and observing how the skin moved under his fingers. “This is entirely unacceptable,“ he began, as though criticising John’s inability to observe yet another basic clue. “I didn’t fake my death to chase murderers halfway around the world and get blown up myself, for you to finish up here. This is too bloody ordinary for you. Come on, John. You spend far too much time asleep as it is. I don’t need to know the structure of the solar system to know you’re the most vital part of mine. Wake up. Please.”

Agnes waited just beyond the half open door. It tore at her to hear him speak like that. Doubly so when the focus of his affections couldn’t respond. She fled.

Mycroft found her in the visitor’s lounge when he arrived a few minutes later, a quivering statue that shattered to pieces as soon as he touched her arm.  
__

Where are you? MC

In the coffee shop behind you. Taking a break while there’s a chance. Join me. A

“Would her ladyship prefer the triple chocolate or the triple chocolate?” Martin slid into the seat opposite hers. Their knees touched and their fingers brushed, but anyone watching would still mistake them as merely colleagues rather than something closer.  
“Oh, the triple chocolate, please.” She delicately unpeeled the casing and sliced the cake into segments.  
“Awful lot of fuss for something you could demolish in four bites.”  
“I’d rather not be picking chocolate chunks from between my teeth in front of the chief constable. Some of us have standards to maintain.” He might have believed the sarcasm if it hadn’t been muted by a smile.  
He grinned back. Discovering Anthea’s sense of humour had made the darker corners of his job much more bearable. It may or may not have taken eighteen months of coffee, sandwiches and the occasional night off in a strange country to gain her trust. Once or twice, he’d been within an instant of kissing her, only to be be thwarted by his own gutlessness. Most of this time, to be honest, her company was enough. Especially when she smiled at him like that.  
“So is the Jag still purring?” he asked. “She doesn’t take kindly to strange hands.” That earned him a single raised eyebrow as she finished her mouthful.  
“I was driving her well before you forcibly rearranged GERT-I with the Dark Lord on board. She and I had a cooperation agreement way before you were even a dot on the horizon.” She took a contemplative sip of coffee. “Although I would have enjoyed it more under brighter circumstances. It’s been a bloody awful day all round.”  
“Hmm. And not likely to get any better yet. Any further news from upstairs?”  
She shook her head. “Mycroft went straight up to the ward. I believe he’s with Agnes.”  
“What about Sherlock?”  
“If things are improving, he’ll start badgering the staff about their personal lives. If things don’t…” The sentence crumbled in her mouth. It didn’t need finishing.  
“We’ll face that - if- it happens.”  
The buzz of Anthea’s phone came as a welcome distraction.

Meeting at Parkside at five thirty. Please come up to the visitor’s lounge. Bring Crieff with you. MH

It wasn’t until the second before the lift opened on the third floor before Martin found the courage he needed. Leaning down, he brushed a single dry kiss above her eyebrow.  
“Look after yourself,” he whispered.  
“I’ll do my best.” The memory of his lips on her skin stayed with her as they walked towards the visitor’s lounge, two breaths away from touching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to 3littleowls and Entropic Cascade for being on general encouragement and beta duties. If any mistakes remain, they are all my own work.


	16. Above  and beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hospital wards can be dangerous places. Sherlock isn't the only one who hides in plain sight...

Martin stretched his legs and levered himself up from the infeasibly low sofa in the lounge. Almost seven o'clock.

He peered through the glass panel of the room opposite. Dr Watson remained apparently unresponsive. Molly and Agnes sat on the far side of his bed. Molly was knitting and Agnes was attempting to remember the basics for the first time in years. The strange domesticity soothed him. Agnes looked up and beckoned him in. 

“I wondered how long it would take before she ensnared you,” he said, with a smile in his voice.

Molly looked up through her eyebrows. “It's keeping us busy. Agnes is a natural.”  
Agnes was less convinced. “Not exactly,” she replied. “You didn't see my first attempt. Looked like an earthworm escape team.” She considered the growing shape in her hands. “This might turn out better.”  
A skein of wool was thrust in his direction. “Want a try?” said Molly. “It's just muscle memory – you must have learned at primary school.”

A rueful grin spread across Martin's face. “Some of us would prefer not to remember such things. Do you want anything from the machine?”

“That's very kind of you, but we' re fine, ” replied Agnes.  
“Well, I'm just across the way, if you need me.” He closed the door gently and headed towards the toilet.

It was handover time and the outer corridor was deserted. A lone figure in a white coat stood at the far end, apparently studying a noticeboard. A prickle of recognition passed between them. He spotted Martin and strode into the staff room as though caught out. 

He had sent the text to Anthea almost without thinking.  
Back up might be useful. Don't think we're alone up here. MC

MH informed but does not seem overly alarmed. Be careful. A

My brother is an idiot. We're on our way. SH

There was an odd comfort in being taken seriously, even at a distance. Martin stood on the threshold of the visitor lounge, apparently studying his phone. In reality his eyes never left the opposite door . Agnes headed for the toilet. The stranger passed her from the opposite direction, carrying a small covered tray. His confidence was chilling as he opened the door.

“Evening.” Molly smiled as the 'doctor' appeared. “Just checking Mr Watson's levels.” Molly's eyes widened as he replaced the chart and approached the bed. Her unease grew as she caught Martin's gaze through the window. Stop him, he mouthed at her as he silently opened the door.  
“How is he doing, doctor?” asked Molly.  
“Much as we expected, but this should help his sugar levels.”  
Molly fumbled in her bag. “He's looking better, though?”  
“He's making progress in the right direction. This will help.” He uncapped the syringe and took hold of John's arm.  
“As will this.” Molly lashed out and embedded her embroidery scissors in his leg. He yelped in pain and span around. The needle flew in an arc and hit the wall, rolling away harmlessly.  
Martin surged forward and pinioned him over the edge of the bed. He slipped the tie over his wrists and yanked his prisoner from the bed with a crash and a thud.  
“Get your hands off me! Security! SECURITY!” screamed the man against the floor tiles.  
Martin knelt on his back and pulled his head by the collar. “Don't worry, they're on their way, but you do more than breathe and you won't live to see them.”

Martin maintained his grip, but softened his gaze and looked up at Molly. He quirked an eyebrow.  
Molly nodded. John drifted on, oblivious.

The door burst open. Lestrade and Sherlock filled its frame, desperate-eyed and panting. The gentle, continuous beep and rattle of John's life-support machine reassured them they weren't too late, despite the worst of their fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may have been inspired by watching a moment of unexpected savagery in TTSS by a certain actor of our collective imagination last week. His eruption of of fury is something else.


	17. Deserved Mutiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes a lot for Martin to lose his temper, but even he has limits. Mycroft has a lot to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expertly plot wrangled by Entropic Cascade, and beta read by 3littleowls. The internet is a warmer place for your presence, ladies.

Mycroft stepped out of the lift and adjusted his cuffs. Crieff was leaning against the opposite wall, rumpled and tieless.

“Neatly done, Crieff,” he acknowledged.

Martin’s gaze flicked up for a second before the floor took his attention again. “I’d like a word, Sir.” Each syllable was cloaked in anger. “After you’ve spoken to Miss Reynard.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows ascended briefly at his tone, but did not feel the need to remark upon it. “Understood.” He went in search of Agnes.  
__

I’ve enjoyed working with you. MC

What are you going about? A

I’m about two minutes away from lamping the Dark Lord himself. MC

Don’t. Not worth it. A

Perhaps not in the long run, but his luck just about ran out tonight. Bloody chancer. MC

He’s fortunate that he’s got you on his side. A

Not for much longer at this rate. MC

Just don’t hit him. A

Why not? MC

It’s still not worth it. Especially when there are others who will do the same and face no consequences. A

Also, you can’t fly a plane with broken fingers. A

Perhaps, but I’m still having words with the git. MC

If you must, but stay in one piece. A  
__

“Will here do?” The back stairwell was conveniently deserted.

“If it must, Sir.” Mycroft’s ears twitched at the flinted ice in Crieff’s voice. This was new.

“Well, let’s hear it.”

“What was the purpose of my role here tonight, Sir?”

“Observation and protection.”

“For which I was unbriefed and underprepared. Almost worse than useless.”

“Clearly not. You were never truly imperiled, Crieff.”

“This was never about me. There were others at stake, Sir.”

“And yet you neutralized the risk. Quite skillfully, it appears.”

“By luck, rather than by accident. I’m not James sodding Bond.” Martin’s eyes burned into him. “You left me here, to protect them, unwarned and unarmed. Dr Watson owes his life to Molly Hooper, not me. She’s the reason that he came to no further harm."

”An action for which she is to be commended.” Clearly just another day at the office, as far as he was concerned.

He pushed an hand through his hair. It was either that or punching Mycroft. ”She never should have been put in that position. Unlike my present company, I care about my family and friends. I do my utmost to keep them from harm.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Crieff, the situation has been resolved. The individual is in custody.” He twirled his signet ring, over and over. “And now you have a choice; let the adrenaline fade or face the consequences.”

Martin maintained his stare. His eyes were darkly calm. “And what would those be?”

“One man has no chance against the British Government.”

If this had hit home, he did not flinch. “I’m not a coward or a machine, Sir. Unlike some.”

“Tread carefully, Crieff. You will not be warned again.”

“Don’t worry, Sir, I understand.” His words were laced with sarcasm. “But just so that you realize, I’m still not scared. Just fucking furious.” Martin passed within inches. His breath heated Mycroft’s face as he swept back towards the ward.

A vengeful ghost materialised from the shadows. “You don’t deserve the staff you have.”

“As if that’s any business of yours.” Mycroft consulted his watch and turned to leave. Bad move.His face exploded with the force of a fist in black leather. The same hand pushed him back against the wall, holding him at arm’s length.

“If you ever put anyone close to me in such danger again, without appropriate protection, no-one will ever find what’s left of you.” Sherlock disappeared down the stairs in a swirl of coat.

The venom of Sherlock’s words burned through the last of Mycroft’s complacency, leaving him to sag against the wall.


	18. The comfort to be found in free coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee makes an effective shock blanket, especially when it arrives from an unexpected source.

Are you still in my brother’s employ? SH

I have currently received no information to the contrary. MC

Martin spotted a movement in GERT-I’s rear mirror as a shadowed figure approached. He lowered the window cautiously. “Where to?” he asked.

“Here will be adequate,” replied Sherlock. He strode over to an adjacent bench, a small paper bag dangling form one hand. Martin pulled on his coat and joined him, securing GERT-I with one click.

“Here.” A cardboard cup was thrust into his hand. “Perfectly safe, even though it was prepared by the terminally gormless.”

“Erm, thank you, Mr Holmes.” Sherlock shot him an acidic glance.

“Do not mistake me for my brother. I am Sherlock, just as Dr Watson is John. Save the formalities for my disappointment of a sibling.”

Martin took a sip. Hot, warm and sweet, with the slightest dash of milk. The impact of the evening began to ease.

“Better?” asked Sherlock. 

“Getting there.” He glanced sideways at his unexpected companion. “So what happens now?”

Sherlock stared out at the emptying car park. “The idiot of the family will come to his sense and begin to apply his remaining brain cells to the situation. I will remain here, as will Miss Reynard and Lestrade.”

“How’s Molly?”

An oddly soft smile flickered over Sherlock’s face. “Superficially calm. We should be thankful that she has never been one for hysterical behaviour.”

Martin pondered the comment. “As her friend, I’d be happier if she was somewhere safe tonight.”

“An honourable, if predictable response.” Sherlock drained the rest of his coffee and hurled the cup into the bin. “Expect to hear from the family slug in the next few minutes. Your position and continued existence have never been in doubt.”

“Good to know.” Martin disposed of his cup. Sherlock loomed at his shoulder. 

“If you ever find yourself contemplating the dole once more, you could do worse than switching to my employ.”

. “An interesting offer. I’ll bear it in mind, ” he replied, but Sherlock had already melted back into the dark.


	19. Distancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As ever, someone else is watching...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less of a chapter, more of a dribble, but more is on its way...

Twin screens showed the near-identical variants of the same image. Two hunched failures shivering in the cells. The final pair of operatives, placed beyond his use. Their fecklessness shamed the service to which they had been recruited.  
Still, he had to be thankful that they knew almost nothing important. He could leave them to rot where they slept for all it mattered to him.  
But now there was no-one left. Bloodied hands would be the price of the endgame. He turned his mind towards its final act.


	20. An unthinkable emotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft wrong-footed and prepared to admit it? Perhaps...

I will be arriving shortly. Where should I meet you, Mycroft? MSH

Anthea will bring you up. MH

No-one would have vast a second glance at Margaret Spencer-Harris if she decided otherwise. An apparently nondescript woman, in respectable anddowdy clothes, neatly greying hair and a pair of face-swamping horn rims. The best close protection officer that the Met had ever produced found it to be an effective disguise.

“Good evening, Ma’am,” said Anthea, extending a hand which was promptly and firmly shook. 

“Thank you, Ms Milson. How is Dr Watson?”

“Continuing to respond to treatment. The doctors believe he will regain consciousness in the next few hours.”

“Good to hear.” 

The lift doors opened on the third floor as Mycroft folded away a blood-stained handkerchief. Neither women could control their eyebrows.  
“A display of fraternal affection,” he explained in a voice clouded by his damaged nose. “Nothing permanent, thankfully. Anthea, I have kept you here long enough. Please locate Dr Hooper. Crieff will drive you both back to Newmarket. Be prepared for an early start tomorrow. No later than five thirty."

"Certainly,sir."  
Margaret watched her go. "She'd make a fine officer."

"As I have been told before, but don't go laying plans. Anthea is the linchpin of my office."  
"I hope you make her aware of the fact on a regular basis."  
"She is aware of her value." A sudden, subtle lie. He guided her down a side corridor. "We have been granted use of an office while Dr Watson remains on the ward. If you will follow me..."

*****

“What more have you discovered?” he asked once the office door was closed.  
“Precious little. They're unknowns, no doubt deliberately chosen for that reason. Not even a blip on the adult system.”  
“What of their juvenile footprint?”  
“Minor offences. Vandalism and shoplifting.” Margaret passed him the file. “Products of the care system.”  
Mycroft flicked through the pages, absorbing the key details. “Any connections?”  
“Nothing immediate, but there will be something.”  
“Did they say anything after we left?”  
“Just one word. Milverton. Recited it over and over like a script, even when their identities were established.” She spotted Mycroft's subconscious flinch at the name. “What are you allowed to tell me?”  
He paused before speaking. “It is not a matter of professional clearance,” he admitted. “The information is on the public record, provided that you have the appropriate skills.”  
“And you do?”  
Mycroft nodded. “Albeit from unconventional channels.”  
“We all have our own,” she mused.”The issue is, as ever, how much trust can be placed in yours.”  
One pair of shark eyes met another across the table. “More than might be expected,” he replied.  
“I understand. What would you like my next move to be? I am at your disposal, unless Sherlock has other ideas.”  
“I appreciate your assistance, but you would do better to consult him yourself. Our last meeting was not a positive one.”  
She smirked. “So he hit you because...”  
Mycroft's nose twitched painfully. “...because he allowed his emotions to override his judgement. And a less than charitable soul might suggest that he was justified.”  
“Does your conscience ache as much as your face?”  
Damn the woman. She saw straight through him. “Perhaps.” The discreet beep of his mobile saved him from further embarrassment. “Please excuse me,” he said, as he checked the screen.

John awake, no thanks to you. I would like to speak to MSH once you have finished bleeding on her. SH

“Good news?”  
“Yes. Dr Watson has returned to us. And as expected, the junior idiot of the family has demanded an audience. ”  
“So does that make you the senior one?”  
Mycroft locked the file away in his case. “Perhaps.”


	21. Repaying the balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of calm allows Anthea to repay what she owes.

It was a quick, smooth journey along the dull slick of road between the sleeping fields. Other traffic was a rarity in the gentle silence.

Martin glanced at his dozing passengers via the rear view mirror. Both exhausted but neither prepared to admit it, even to him. He slowed as he approached the pub, taking the turning as gently as he could so that they could rest a little longer.

Anthea blinked as he switched off the ignition. Molly remained oblivious. He opened the door nearest her. “Grab her bag. I’ll bring her in. It’s not far.” He tossed over the keys. “Lock up for me.”

He unsnapped the seatbelt and slid his arms under Molly. She murmured slightly as he lifted her out of the car. “Shh. It’s ok. Nearly home.” His voice soothed her into silence.

Anthea walked alongside them. “Just as well I’m not the jealous type,” she commented.

“Likewise, considering how much time you spend closeted away with Mycroft.”

Now that got a smirk. “Rule one of workplace relationships- never shag your boss.” She unlocked the resident’s door of the pub.

“What about colleagues of equal standing?” he asked, in a deeper tone which echoed through her.

Her gaze took the chill off the hallway. “Depends how well they treat the other women their life.” Her sudden smile dazzled him. “I think you’ve passed.” She prowled upstairs, knowing that he was cataloging the subtle sway of her hips and the swish of her hair as she unlocked the door to Lestrade’s room .

Martin lay Molly on the bed and slipped off her boots. He flipped a blanket over her and set the bedside light to a dim glow before creeping out.

Anthea was waiting, eyes focused on her mobile.

Sir, Dr Hooper sleeping safe and sound in her room. All secure. Please inform GL. A

Have done so. He sends his thanks. Be ready for work at 5.30am- both of you. MH

Yes Sir. A

She muted the phone, then slid it into her suit pocket. 

Martin leaned against the opposite wall, hands thrust deep into his pockets. His eyes never left hers as she stretched up a couple of inches until they were face to face. "I owe you a kiss," she whispered, before repaying the debt.


	22. Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " While I’ve got London’s streets in my head, and can land a plane in a cross-wind, I’d never presume to read another person’s mind."
> 
> Anthea and Martin in a deserted corridor....

That kiss was worth waiting for, thought Martin. His hands slid round Anthea’s waist. Her fingers roamed his hair, pulling him down the crucial few inches towards her. Eventually, they had to stop, if only to breathe. Their eyes locked.  
“Any further plans for tonight?” She hoped she already knew the answer.  
His breath huffed against her hair. “Staying as close to you as I can, for as long as I can,” he murmured.  
“Isn’t that that a little presumptuous of you?” Her voice teased a smile out of him.  
“Perhaps," he replied."But while I’ve got London’s streets in my head, and can land a plane in a cross-wind, I’d never presume to read another person’s mind.” As calm and courteous as ever. Standing his ground but not advancing without consent. Definitely worth encouraging, she thought.  
“Hmm.” Anthea guided him to a less tempting distance. “It’s getting cold here. My room’s bigger than yours. Fancy a sleepover?”  
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been to one of them.” Her hand traced down his side, resting on his belt. He held his breath, trying to subdue the twitch of his muscles. Complete failure. Neither of them cared.  
“I’ll be waiting, Fifteen minutes?”  
“Suits me.”  
The separation felt like physical pain. Martin leant against the wall and watched her disappear into her room. His blood pounded with the unreality of it all. It stole his wits until he registered that the throbbing in his pocket was not entirely biological.  
Are you going to stay there all night? A  
Martin, get a bloody grip, he thought. His senses returned and he bolted for his room.  
___  
Anthea watched him approach through the spyhole. Midnight blue pyjamas under a grey flannel dressing gown. Bare feet. Damp hair. Her mouth dried as he knocked discreetly on the other side. She had to count to twelve before opening the door.  
“Hello again.” There was that smile again. How did he manage to stay so calm? She spotted the half-sized bottle cradled in the nook of his arm.  
Her eyebrows twitched. “Trying to get me drunk?” she mused.  
“No, but perhaps Mycroft is.” He twisted the label towards her. A single line of words on a luminous post-it note. Apologies. MH.  
“Looks like someone’s been on a learning curve.” She took a step back, expecting him to follow. He hesitated, an awkward statue in her doorway. Worry trickled down her back. “What’s up?” she asked.  
His eyes shone with a gentle consideration. “Real men wait to be invited.”  
She opened the door wider. “After you.”  
He didn’t need to be told twice.


	23. Truth and Illumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had faced down dictators and mafiosi as though they were little more than nine year old bullies. He regularly called errant Ministers to heel while the nation’s fate wavered in the wind, without an iota of concern. 
> 
> It took three minutes before Mycroft realised that the feeling sweeping through him was fear.
> 
> ___  
> Mycroft and Sherlock begin to accept the true challenges of this case.

Marianne, it is imperative that I must speak to you this evening. MH

I understand. How are the ‘children’? MR

John continues to improve. He has been moved out of ICU. In the midst of everything, Agnes has managed to persuade my brother to both eat and sleep a little. MH

She texted me as much. I have a remarkable daughter. MR

She clearly takes after her mother. Where would you prefer to talk? MH

My room. I have a fire going, courtesy of DS Donovan. MR

Expect me within the hour. MH.

______

Half past eleven. Mycroft locked the Jaguar and watched Lestrade hare upstairs with barely a backwards glance.

His progress was somewhat slower. He had faced down dictators and mafiosi as though they were little more than nine year old bullies. He regularly called errant Ministers to heel while the nation’s fate wavered in the wind without an iota of concern.

It took three minutes before Mycroft realised that the feeling sweeping through him was fear.  
________

”Thank you for waiting up, Marianne.” Her brief smile matched his. “This cannot be easy for you.”

She took refuge in the fireside chair. “Few elements of my relationship with Andrew were easy. His death only complicates matters further.”

“You are not alone. We are all here to support you.”

She stared into the grate. “As it ever was.”

“Whatever passed between Andrew and myself in a professional capacity, it never diminished the regard I hold for you and your girls.” The power of his gaze was magnetic. It drew her eyes towards his as he continued. “And while Sherlock would be loath to admit it in open company, his feelings are just as strong. He would do anything to protect you both.”

“Even punch his elder brother?” His eyebrow quirked in spite of itself.

“A minor family skirmish, which has been simply and swiftly resolved.” He leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him. “Marianne, you have had to carry a great deal for such a long time. You must tell me what you know.”

“Must I?” Her eyes reflected the defiance of both of her daughters blended with her own fears.

“If not now, when?“

No answer arrived. She was a quivering silhouette against the fire, and then a hand grasped his. The decision was made.

Leaning into Mycroft, cushioned by the sofa, she struggled to find her starting point. His compassionate silence gave her the courage to expose the depth of a thirty-year lie.  
________

What has she told you? SH  
She has confirmed what I had previously thought.MH  
How long have you wondered? SH  
Twenty eight years, give or take a month. MH  
Who else knows? SH  
We three, and no more. It is imperative that it stays that way, at least for a few hours. MH  
Really? SH  
Absolutely MH  
What about John? SH  
You may tell him tomorrow. And not a word to Agnes. She must hear this from Marianne. Expect me at eight thirty. MH  
________  
The room was cosily dim. Agnes slept on the visitor couch, shielded by the drape of a familiar coat.  
Sherlock was in a high-backed chair next to the bed. The room had been silent for fifty seven minutes when John stirred. Sherlock's hand hovered over the call button. His voice drifted softly across John's face. "Need anything?"  
"A cure for boredom. Done enough sleeping for now."  
"Where's your phone?"  
"Top drawer. What's wrong with yours?"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nothing." He rooted in the drawer, then pressed the phone into John's hand. "I would prefer to text."  
"Oh."  
"Precisely."  
Case details? JW  
Yes. The family idiot has finally managed to demonstrate a fraction of his worth. SH  
And? JW  
He will divulge more in the morning, when he brings M to the hospital. I am under embargo until then. SH  
National security? JW  
Not exactly, although there are implications. We may lose the luxury of choice. SH  
Don't like the sound of that. Between what exactly? JW  
Loyalty and truth. Difficulties are continuing to emerge. SH  
John frowned. He laid a hand over Sherlock’s, and found it was shaking.  
You total prat. It's never been a choice as far as I've been concerned. Truth is a relative value. My loyalty is an absolute. JW  
Sherlock's hand stilled. The heavier edges of worry lifted from his face.  
Sometimes I delete too much. Thank you for the reboot. SH


	24. Wake up calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not updating earlier. The plot went through a rebellious phase, but a compromise has now been reached.

Martin slid away from the bed and blinked until the lights on the bedside clock swam into focus. Quarter to five. He grabbed Anthea’s thankfully plain dressing gown and grabbed his key. He hoped that he’d be back before she woke.

His mission took less than four minutes, just long enough to grab clean clothes and his shaving kit.The building was still utterly silent other than the occasional creak of ageing timber. Nothing moved in the corridor or on the stairs, and yet when he re-emerged, a covered breakfast tray waited outside Anthea’s door.

He was settling it on the dresser as she stirred. “Mnnn?” she muttered. He perched on the side of the bed.

“We’ve got forty minutes before the Dark Lord expects us to report for duty.” Her hands reached up and pulled him down.  
“Well let’s make the most of our time.”  
Who was he to argue?  
______________

There really wasn’t a way to ask a kettle to boil quietly, but Molly didn’t stir. Greg decided to leave her for a little longer. After all, there was no way of knowing how long today would turn out to be. He brewed the tea, and headed for the shower.

A steaming mug was thrust at him when he returned. “You needn’t be up yet,’ he chided as he took it from her.

Molly grabbed the chance to kiss him. “ I’ll get up when I feel like it. Besides, breakfast’s here.” She indicated the coffee table. “Want to get stuck into that?”

“Is there another option?” HIs grin suggested otherwise.

“Not right now, unfortunately. We’re meeting Mycroft in half an hour.” She sat down and lifted the lids. “Come and eat.”

An interesting word choice. Shame that cockblocking clearly ran in the Holmes family, he thought.  
________

At ten to seven all seemed still in John’s room, other than the muted rattle of Sherlock’s pocket. 

Sherlock.... MH

What is it? Shouldn’t you be snout-deep in the breakfast trough? SH

Some of us do not resort to such animalistic eating habits. I understand that the night passed without incident. MH

No thanks to you. J making better than expected progress. A is currently asleep. SH

You might have given them some privacy. MH

Neither objected to my presence. I was a stabilising influence. SH

Unlikely. M has clarified the situation. We will be on the ward at eight thirty to speak with Agnes. They will need all the support we can offer them. I politely advise you to avoid antagonising anyone. MH

Obviously. SH

Agnes stirred at the corner of his vision. “Stop sniping at Mycroft,” she whispered. “I can see your sarkiness from here.” Sherlock regarded her with vague amusement, but kept his own voice to a similar level.

“If I started being polite, he would assume that my mind was no longer my own. A well-aimed barb reminds him of his audience and his own lack of purpose.”

Agnes stretched. She stood and held out Sherlock’s coat. “Coffee?”

“Double espresso, two sugars, thanks.” He turned back back to his phone. Agnes pulled him to his feet. 

“ I’m your god niece, not your waitress. Come and deduce some strangers for me.”

“I would prefer not leave John unguarded.” That earned him a jab in the leg nearest the bed. 

“Go with Agnes and get your own coffee, you unchivalrous git. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself for ten minutes.” John flourished the call button at him. “See? Awake and rational. ”

“Well make sure you stay that way,” Sherlock huffed on his way out.


	25. The Aftereffect of Fraternal Solidarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is facing questions which he is reluctant to answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by the letter C, the colour purple and the long distance pom pom waving of EntropicCascade.

“You’re quiet.” Sherlock threw her the look he felt that comment deserved.  
“Sometimes I don’t speak for days.”  
Clearly, Agnes was in no mood to give up. “Your silences aren’t usually as loud as this.”  
“I was thinking.”  
“Well stop filing your thoughts and look at me. What was last night about?”  
They edged forward in the coffee queue. “Talk to Mycroft.”  
“No. You’re here and he’s not. So I’ll ask you again. What happened last night? While you were at the police station?”  
Sherlock paused deliberately and waited for his mouth to catch up with his brain. If she had been a client, his response would have been instant and unfiltered. But Agnes deserved better.  
“There was a second attack on John,” he replied, watching the colour slide from her face. “Capably foiled by Crieff and Molly, as it happened. The motive remains frustratingly unclear, but the assailant is in custody.”  
“Why didn’t you tell me?”  
“Mycroft forbade it, especially as you did not witness the incident. I believe it was to do with his wish that you avoided further distress.” His hand reached out towards her arm. She flicked it away.  
“John’s life was endangered for a second time in less than twenty four hours, and you and your brother chose, in a bizarre moment of fraternal solidarity, to conceal it from me. For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, I’m not made of glass,” she hissed.  
“This was Mycroft’s decision, not mine.” His voice remained calm, low and even. “But for once I acknowledge the strength of his logic. Would telling you have assisted in the investigation? No. Would you have been able to sleep , knowing what had just occurred? Again, the balance of probability tips towards no.”  
They had reached the counter. The subject was dropped while they waited for their order. He took the cup she thrust at him, and waited while she added milk. “ Mycroft and I agree on precious little, other than the continued safety and wellbeing of those important to us.” His hand traced over her shoulder. This time she didn’t twitch away from him, although waves of irritation and worry continued to shimmer around her. She looked up,eyes softening a touch.  
“Still mad at the pair of you.”  
“Understandable.”  
“Still feel like punching someone.”  
“Hardly original,” he quipped.  
“Proves how much you deserve it.”  
_________  
They were easy to spot in the food court. He held his camera at a discreet angle, snapping away until he found the ideal shot. Eyes locked on each other, his hand on her shoulder, her face tilted towards his, apparently unaware of how closely they were being watched.


	26. Definitive Proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You up for this?” asked Molly. Greg rolled his eyes.  
> “If I wasn‘t, I wouldn’t be here.”
> 
>  Molly and Greg discover something which cannot be. Their discovery does not go unnoticed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to 3littleowls for her beta reading, and to EntropicCascade for her encouragement. This story wouldn't get published without them.

“You up for this?” asked Molly. Greg rolled his eyes.  
“If I wasn‘t, I wouldn’t be here.”  
“Good.” She thrust a green lab coat at him. “Put this on.” He grinned at her.  
“Didn’t realise that you’d be into dressing up.” Even the chill of the mortuary tiles and the subtle stench of formaldehyde couldn’t wipe the smile off Molly’s face. She was glad that Sally was upstairs, combing through the files. Time alone with Greg was precious, especially at the moment.  
He reappeared a moment later, tugging a pair of gloves onto his hands. “Better?” he asked, a sober voice which battled with the merry glint in his eyes.  
Molly looked him up and down and focused back on the corpse which lay between them. “You’ll do. I need you to look through his records for any major incidents. Injuries, illnesses, operations, that sort of thing.”  
“Secondary identification?” She nodded.  
“It’ll assist with the profile building. DNA testing is underway, but the fire damage means it will take longer to definitively identify him. “  
“OK.” Greg bent over the file, trying to ignore the disquieting soundtrack of clinical dismemberment occurring just out of his line of sight.  
"Appendix removed 1975."  
"Figures," replied Molly. " Anything else ?"  
"Hmm." Greg skimmed the pages. " Nothing much. Vaccinations up to date, regular cholesterol tests, etc. Bit on the boring side, really."  
"The payoff for a life in the senior civil service, clearly." "Anything else I can find for you? "  
"Not really. Are the dental records attached?"  
"Hmm. Let me look." Yep - here we are."  
"Good. Any x-rays?"  
"Just the one. A bit faded, but I'm sure you can read it. Want it on the lightbox?"  
"Thanks. I'll check it later."  
A professional silence developed between them, broken by rustling pages and the clash of metal against tissue and bone.  
"Oh."  
"Mol, what is it?"  
"Grab your camera. Looks like I've found something."  
Greg pulled out his phone and took a deep breath. "What am I looking for ?" he asked.  
"This." She sliced the half-charred flesh from the bone. "This body cannot be Andrew Reynard."  
"How can you be so sure?"  
"The man on this table went through a hip replacement, probably about three to five years ago."  
"How can you date it so accurately?" he asked.  
"This." Molly laid her scalpel against a metal plate, about half a centimetre long, embedded into the surface. "That number will be traceable. And as there‘s no record of that operation in his file, we've got a problem."  
"Right." Greg's voice took on a grim edge. Molly stood to one side as he took several photographs. "You've got a report to write and I've got some calls to make. Shit, as if Agnes hasn't got enough to deal with."  
Molly scooted around the table and squeezed his hand. "She's got some good people around her. We'll all help her to make it through." Greg’s mouth acknowledged her with a half smile, but his eyes remained grim.  
"Look, I don’t know how things are going to pan out now. We’re going to be I'll text you later. Make sure they look after you here. I want to know about the slightest wibble."  
"I will. Tell the consulting idiots to behave themselves."  
"Unlikely, but I'll pass the message on."  
She watched him leave, then returned to her work. Whoever this man turned out to be, he deserved her best efforts.  
An hour passed. Molly completed her report and saved it. An odd movement in the far corner of the ceiling caught her attention. Spiders weren’t that precise, and the CCTV camera was on the other wall. A prickle of unease sprouted in her mind as she pretended to carry on as normal. She covered the remains of not-Reynard with the sheet and hung up her labcoat. 

There it was again. A blink of light, sharp and white, gone in an instant.

Molly retreated to the back office and pulled out her phone.

Something's up. M  
Greg replied immediately. You OK?

But before she could respond, the same odd instinct which had prompted her earlier unease propelled Molly out of the fire escape and up the steps two seconds before the mortuary imploded in a shower of glass and masonry.


	27. The Implosion of a Widely Held Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How long have you known for certain?"
> 
> "Precisely twelve hours longer than either of you," he replied, "although I had suspected as much for some time."
> 
> "Why the secrecy?"
> 
> Sherlock's gaze seemed suddenly bottomless. "I am not that much of a machine, John. There are some disclosures that even I would choose not to make.” He swept out before a further response could be made.
> 
> The end of a deception leaves everyone floundering.

The text messages began to mount. John ignored them as he brushed his teeth and forced his hair into submission.  The latest hack that Sherlock had inflicted on their phones meant all texts from anonymous numbers were automatically forwarded to each other, and probably Mycroft, too.  What was lost in privacy gained them precious investigatory time.

_They make an engaging couple, don’t they?_

_Does this mean that Sherlock’s finally learned how to share?_

_Perhaps she’s already oiled his parts. Lying runs in families, after all. Like mother, like daughter._

Sherlock took a breath before forwarding them in a group to another secure number.

Anthea responded within ninety seconds.

Triangulation software in operation. Will report on results as they appear.  MR /MH in the car park. A

Silence on this matter must be maintained. This individual is dangerous MH

Obviously. SH

Location identified. Will report when data checked against CCTV feed. A

Understood. SH

__

 Agnes glared at Sherlock’s phone.

“Do you ever leave that alone?”

“Occasionally.” The lift doors opened. Anthea met them at the door to the ward. “They’re in the ward office. I’m to take you there directly.”

“Thanks,” replied Agnes. She turned to Sherlock. “I’ll speak to you later. No inciting John to any acts of medically unsound behaviour. And no upsetting the nursing team.”

His ‘who, me?’ grin fooled no-one. “Speak to you later.”

____

 

The first indication of trouble was the faint echo of the ward door slamming at the far end of the corridor. Both of them registered it, but John was still tethered to his drip.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised a question. John's nod answered it. "I'll find her," he promised. "Even though I doubt she'll want to speak to anyone."

"That's good of you, but help me out here. What has she just been told and why will she be so pissed off with you all?” There were a few ideas running through John’s head, and he didn’t appreciate any of them.

Sherlock's fingers stilled on the door handle. "Reynard was not the biological father of his daughters. Whether he knew is pure conjecture at this point."

John's eyes widened."Shit." His next breath gave just enough time to think. "How long have you known for certain?"

"Precisely twelve hours longer than either of you," he replied, "although I had suspected as much for some time."

"Why the secrecy?"

Sherlock's gaze seemed suddenly bottomless. "I am not that much of a machine, John. There are some disclosures that even I would choose not to make.” He swept out before a further response could be made.

__

Neatly done, brother. Any more bright ideas? SH

Just find her and keep her safe. MH

After your fuckwittery, count yourself blessed if she'll even acknowledge me. SH

Agnes, where are you? JW

Elsewhere. Please leave me alone. AR

Not until I know you're safe. JW

Agnes, please come back. Mum

Will all of you just leave me be. What else haven't I been told?  AR

___

 

Sherlock located her within four minutes. She was huddled on the bottom of a fire escape, vibrating with alternate waves of confusion and rage.

Located. Will attempt to bring her into you. SH

Thanks. JW

Fuck off, Sherlock. AR

Agnes, John has asked me to find you. SH

Leave me alone. You're as bad as your bloody brother. How long have you known? AR

A day longer than you. SH

"It's too easy to lie by text," she snapped. "Say that to my face."

Sherlock descended the metal steps, shedding his coat as he went. He plonked himself next to her. He enveloped her in the Belstaff, only for her to shrug it off immediately.

"Your magic coat won't work this time." Her eyes remained focused on the ground.

"Psychologically no, but it is sufficiently dense to alleviate the physical symptoms of cold." He retreated to what he judged to be a safe distance.

"Stop staring at me." Her voice came out lumpy and thick.

"I am merely following orders to ensure your safety."

"And since when did you decide to become obedient?"

"John asked me to be so. He is the reason that I'm watching you freeze despite my selfless donation of an excellent coat."  Sherlock edged closer. "He is worried about you. For you. To the point that his own wellbeing is a minor matter to be ignored. "

"And what does that make you? Consulting messenger boy?"

"If that's what it takes to get you back inside and communicating." His hand hovered two inches from her shoulder. He failed to hide his surprise when she leaned back into it.

"IF I go in, the only person I will see is John. The rest of you can piss off."

"Understood. " She took the hand he offered. His fingers dwarfed hers as they headed back to the ward.

 

 


	28. Seven bloody minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven minutes. He’d been out of the station for seven bloody minutes, to find a cash point, for Christ’s sake. Neither Sally nor Molly were responding to their phones and that silence scared him.
> 
> Greg finds himself on the wrong side of the incident tape on his return to the police station

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the mini hiatus. Real lIfe, plus other creative demands, have kept me from this. Unlike Mofftis, I don't like leaving characters in mortal danger for too long, which is why I'm hoping to wind this up quite soon, although the way that the plot bunnies are multiplying, there could well be a sequel.

Greg pelted down the high street as soon as he heard the blast. He had no doubt as to its location. Seven minutes. He’d been out of the station for seven bloody minutes, just to find a cash point, for Christ’s sake. Neither Sally nor Molly were responding to their phones, and the silence scared him.

He weaved through the gathering crowd and up to the tape which was being unrolled by a junior PC. Greg flashed his warrant card. “What happened?” he asked. “Too early to say for certain, Sir.A suspected explosion. No-one’s allowed any further than this until the Fire Brigade have completed their inspection.” He pointed over to a knot of people on the boundary of the car park, clumped alongside a number of ambulances. “As far as we know, all official individuals have been accounted for, including your colleagues.”  
“Any casualties?”  
“I’m afraid I don’t know, but no-one’s been taken offsite as of yet, Sir.”  
That left too many ambiguities for Greg’s mind. “Thanks for your help.” He stumbled over to the group at the far end of the car park.

He was passing the third ambulance when someone shouted “Over here!” Sally, bag in one hand and phone in the other. Somewhat dusty but clearly unhurt. “Glad you’re OK. Just contacted Anthea so that the Dark Lords know what’s happened. “  
He almost smiled at her joke. “Molly?”  
She pointed inside.“In here. Nothing major.” Greg’s lungs remembered what they were for and allowed him to breathe as he rounded the side of the ambulance.  
Molly was sitting unnaturally still on the back steps as a paramedic removed splinters from her hairline with tweezers and an antiseptic wipe. Greg hunkered down at her feet and took her hand. Her fingers squeezed his back, and their eyes met.  
“Sorry to worry you,” she mumbled, barely moving her face.  
“S’alright,” he whispered back. “Does Toby know that you’ve borrowed a couple of his lives?”  
“He won’t mind.” The smile in her voice reassured him. ”Furniture surfing is about as dangerous as he gets these days.”  
Sally poked her head around the door. “Just heard from Anthea. There have been significant developments in Cambridge. There’ll be a case conference at the Inn as soon as we can assemble everyone.”  
"Any news on John?” asked Molly.  
Sally nodded. “He’s being discharged on strict instructions to rest.”  
The paramedic stood up and took off his gloves. “Right, Dr Hooper, all done. Get someone to brush out your hair when you get back, and take it easy, at least for the rest of the day. I don’t think that I need to lecture you on the effects of delayed shock.”  
Molly slipped the blanket off her shoulders and handed it back. “I wouldn’t want to add to your workload.” Greg straightened up and held out his hand.  
“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”  
Sally hovered beside them for a moment. “Guv, I’ll see what I can find out here. Catch you later.”  
“Cheers Sal.” 

When they reached his car, Greg lost the ability to move further. Suddenly holding on Molly was the most important thing in the world, and she didn’t let him go until he stopped shaking.


	29. Departure Codes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft prepares for some legwork, to the growing concern of Anthea and Martin Crieff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in the erratic timing of my output, but elements of RL have been utterly foul of late. I am massively indebted to my friends both on here and on Ravelry for keeping me afloat and approaching something close to sanity. It means a huge amount.

Location of texter confirmed. A

Identity? MH

As suspected. A 

Initiate Code Five immediately. MH

Understood. A  
______

“Crieff?” 

Martin looked up from his tablet. ”Sir?”

“Please drive Dr Watson, my brother and the Reynards back to Newmarket, and wait for further instructions.”

“Certainly, Sir. Expecting trouble?” 

“Something like that. Off you go, and do not allow Sherlock to divert you from your path in any way. Lives will depend on it. Clear?”

Completely, Sir.” Martin picked up his bag and went off towards the ward. There was a finality to Mycroft’s words which troubled him, but he had orders to follow. 

Anthea approached from the opposite direction, carrying a covered tray.Their eyes locked, and he wished they were somewhere more private. Her hand touched her mouth, then a puff of air hit his cheek. He pressed a hand to his lips and blew her a swift kiss in return as they passed. Any further intimacy would have to wait until the world was a safer, simpler place. If it ever was.  
___  
Mycroft was in his shirt sleeves and loosening his tie when Anthea entered the room. He unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt and pulled it away from his skin, before bending his neck and exposing the edge of one shoulder.

The next thing he felt was cool snout of the gun against his skin, then a sharp click. He winced as the chip found its mark.

“All done, Sir.” Anthea pressed an adhesive-edged dressing to the wound before it could bloom further.  
“Thank you.”  
Anthea turned her back to allow Mycroft a moment while he reassembled his clothing.  
“Is everything in place?”  
“Yes, Sir.”  
“Good.” He closed his folio and passed it over. ”One last thing.” He looked directly into her eyes. “Caring is not an advantage, but without it we are not alive; we merely exist. Look after Crieff, and let him look after you.”

Anthea felt her professionalism ebb away. It was a struggle to control the wobble in her voice. “You are intending to return, Sir?”

Mycroft fixed her with a look. “Did I suggest otherwise?” She shook her head rapidly. “I am so glad that you have maintained an appropriate level of attention.” His expression softened a little. “You two danced around each other for far too long. An intelligent woman makes the most of her time, even if men sometimes do not.”

“Yes Sir.” She could trust herself to say anything more without crumbling.  
“I am glad that I have made myself clear. Has DI Spencer Harris been in touch?”  
“Yes. She returned an item of Dr Watson’s property which was apparently mislaid between the railway station and Addenbrookes.”  
“Most thoughtful of her. When is your meeting at Parkside?”  
“In half an hour, Sir.”  
“Best not to keep her waiting, then.”  
“Yes, Sir. And thank you.”  
“For what, precisely?”  
“Everything.”  
Something flickered across his features as he acknowledged her with a nod - almost sadness, she realised later. A gnawing fear grew in her stomach as she left the hospital.


	30. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft. Legwork. Because the situation demands it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge belated thanks to Anarfea for her input and suggestions on this chapter in particular, alongside Entropic Cascade and 3littleowls. The universe is better place because of them.

What are you doing about those text messages? SH

It is all in hand. MH

Mycroft watched GERT-I depart via the CCTV feed. He glanced dubiously at the pile of clothing on the chair. He hadn't worn anything so mass market and pedestrian in the last thirty years. He pulled the blinds, locked the door and reluctantly undressed. 

Once disguised, he turned to his phone, and sent a group message.

Please direct all future messages via Anthea as I will not be in a position to respond for some time. It will be imperative for you to follow all of her requests to the letter. MH

\-------  
GERT-I 's passengers sat in a fragile silence. Agnes and her mother stared out of the window, six inches of space between them on the seat. Opposite, John opened his message box. Sherlock read the screen over his shoulder with a derisive snort. He felt his phone ping a moment later.

Sherlock, what is going on? JW

Code Five has been implemented. AM

Mycroft’s hardly in the state for legwork. He never has been.SH

And neither are any of you at this time , for a variety of reasons. Hence the substitution. A full briefing will follow shortly. Please say nothing of this to the Reynards. AM

What back up has he accepted? SH

Myself, DI MSH and the on call team. Only to be called on in time of greatest need. Insubordination will cost us dearly. AM

Accepted, if not entirely understood. Will do my best to keep him in line. JW

Much appreciated. AM

\------  
Mycroft received the next message five minutes later.

I'm waiting for you.

He waited precisely eighty seconds before responding.

Where? Hospitals are big places.JW

Everyone needs to eat occasionally. Hmm. Lots of potential here. It is somewhat fortunate that there is a major trauma unit nearby. 

What do you want? JW

You. Here. Unarmed. Alone. 

And what if I don't want to? JW

I will start picking off the children, and then their parents. Lots to choose from around here...

On my way.

Mycroft pocketed the phone and stepped onto the food court. There he was. On the fringe of the coffee shop. Head lowered, eyes focused on his phone. He hadn't noticed - yet.

An odd calm swept through Mycroft as he strode towards the table. The man raised his head slowly, registering the details one by one. Nondescript boots. Supermarket jeans. A dowdily checked shirt under a cabled cream jumper. But the legs were longer and the eyes were brown, just as the hair was auburn, not blonde. Perhaps his muscles spasmed. Or perhaps he flinched. Hard to tell, in all honesty.

Mycroft beamed at him as though greeting a long-lost friend. "Please accept the good doctor's apologies, but I felt that he was needed elsewhere." He pulled out his phone. "These are incredibly powerful, aren't they? They can even send messages to the other side." He locked the screen and looked up, eyes sharp and cold. "Care to explain how you've managed to rise from the dead?"

Andrew Reynard did not respond.


	31. Lessons in Defiance and Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have one question.”  
> “Only one?”  
> “What made a good man go bad?”
> 
> Mycroft has put himself into a deadly situation. His main thought is 'Better me than them. Any of them...'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for leaving this as long as I did, but life got in the way. This was a twisty procreative of a chapter at that best of times, but the end of this fic is now in sight!  
> Huge thanks to my friends on here, as well as on Ravelry and Twitter for their ongoing support.

Reynard’s glimmer of shock faded quickly. “Well, perhaps not the face I expected, but you’ll do.” He leant across the table and trapped Mycroft’s hand between both of his own in a mockery of friendship  
Mycroft felt the needle bite into the skin of his wrist. He blinked hard, twice. A creeping weight drifted through his system. Reynard grinned. “Just another present from Baskerville. It’ll keep you physically compliant and relatively mobile. Wallet and phone, please. You'll not need them now."  
Mycroft handed them over. He watched Reynard sweep them into a greasy-pocked Burger King bag and drop them into the bin. Easy come, easy go, he thought. Anthea had the real ones. ”What now?" he asked, careful to shield his awareness.  
Reynard grinned. “We’re going for a little drive.” He held out a hand. "This way."  
They blended into the crowds on the concourse. Mycroft focused on the correct placement of his feet and the solidity of his spine. Reynard's grip on his arm intensified and guided him towards the multi-storey car park towards a non-descript Renault. He watched as Mycroft buckled himself into the passenger seat. “Good. Can’t have you being hurt before I get the chance.”  
He got no response. Mycroft stared blankly ahead, the chemical haze flooding through him. One thought shone brighter than the rest. _Better me than them. Any of them…_

\----  
Personal items disposed of in Food Court. Phone and wallet intact. CCTV update? DR  
Black Renault Modus AJ94 EDC. Thirty yards ahead. No additional collateral. Lights have been phased to allow catch up. AM  
Thank you. DR  
Keep them in sight and you out of it. AM  
Have gained visuals. Audio feed identified. Auto transcribing underway.Cloud link sent via email. DR  
Received. Expect to hear from Juno. Lazarus and Caduceus will be informed. AM  
Understood. DR \------

Mycroft flexed his back. He glanced across at Reynard to gauge his mood, but nothing was forthcoming as they headed away from Cambridge against the flow of the mid-morning traffic.  
“I have one question.”  
“Only one?”  
“What made a good man go bad?”  
Reynard rolled his eyes. “Ever the dramatist, Holmes. I am merely getting back what was rightfully mine, of which the shenanigans and meddling of your brother and his hangers on deprived me.”  
“But what about Peter Watkiss and David Malcolm? Why did they have to suffer?”  
“It served them right for donating sperm to the Milverton fertility programme, but their end was relatively merciful. Hard to feel the flames licking your spine when drugged and insentient.”  
“And your third victim?”  
“A homeless alcoholic who sufficiently resembled me to pass muster. His name is an irrelevancy.”  
“Not to his family when we find them, or to me. No-one is above the law, Reynard.”  
“Really? And how many of the police have you got tucked in your pocket then?”  
“None.”  
“And yet your zombie junkie brother escaped possession charges, and his medical *friend* did likewise for the murder of Jeff Hope. It seems that a big brother’s influence goes a long way.”  
“Hardly.”  
“How unconvincing. I have the evidence to prove otherwise. You’re not the only individual to have friends in unusual places.”  
“And you’re telling me this now because?”  
“You destroyed my prospects, so now I’m going to wreck yours.”  
“Clarify yourself.”  
Reynard leant across the gearbox and twisted a hand into Mycroft’s shirt. “Let’s start with the cuckolding, shall we? “  
Mycroft pulled in as deep a breath that Reynard’s grip allowed him. “I have never been more than a platonic friend to Marianne in all the years that I have known her. And while she may have confided in me about her IVF, I could never have provided biological assistance. A series of serious childhood illnesses rendered me sterile.”  
“Really?”  
“The information is hiding in plain sight. All you had to do was look for it.”  
“I don’t believe you. “  
“That’s your choice. It does not change my medical status. But Agnes is your daughter, just as Lucy was, whether you provided the DNA or not. You raised them.”  
“And look where it left me. Two lessons in defiance and one in disloyalty. “  
“You do your family a great disservice. “  
“They are not as I thought them to be, not that it matters much now. They deserve all that is coming to them.”  
“Agnes and Marianne deserve love, respect and support. “ He glared up at Reynard as best he could. “Your actions will break their hearts.”  
“A touch late for a plea for personal mercy. “  
“I wasn’t thinking of myself. “  
“Martyrdom won’t protect them. Moriarty and his network may be dead, but others are waiting to take his place. Your death will be accompanied by the wailing of imbeciles. Kill me, and the network will reawaken. The odds are in my favour, whatever occurs.” He loosened his grip on Mycroft’s shirt and flung him back against the seat.  
Mycroft realised where they were going. He kept his eyes on the rear view mirror. It did not seem that they had been followed thus far. “You always were a gambler. Is that how they lured you in? Too much money lost on Moran’s illicit tables?”  
A fractional crack appeared in Reynard’s composure. “This is about your failings rather than mine,” he snapped.  
“Perhaps, but when a senior Crown employee has been in the pay of a crime syndicate for the last ten years, perhaps not.” Reynard paled somewhat. “Every interaction leaves a trace, perceptibly or otherwise. Yours became particularly intriguing two years ago, just after a particular irritant with Irish ancestry walked free from the Old Bailey.”  
“What took you so long?”  
“The hope that you would show the courage and inclination to turn Queen’s evidence.” An edge of sadness crept into Mycroft's voice. “Clearly you were unable to.”  
_____

GERT-I drew to a halt outside the inn. Sherlock flung himself out a second later, eyes blazing. John looked back at Agnes. She nodded. "Go after him. We'll be fine, I promise. Just don't let him wear you out."  
"I won't."

DI Spencer-Harris was waiting for Sherlock. "There you are. There have been developments."  
His glare could have started a fire. "Obviously. Have you found them?"  
"Not as such...but it completes the picture."  
" Of what?"  
" The events of the last few days have enabled us to identify an internal issue in the Department."  
She watched the realisation settle into the frown between his brows.  
"The Department above all others?" Her nod was minuscule. "And how many more of you are there in the Met?"  
"Sufficient to maintain a relative handle on its performance, but their identities are on a purely need to know basis. The collateral damage of such data escaping does not bear considering." Her hand brushed his arm. "When the dust settles, we'll talk. In the meantime, we need to focus on retrieving Mycroft with the minimum of damage."  
"What do you need me to do?"  
"Break the habit of your existence and follow orders to the letter, no matter how counter intuitive they appear to be. This is not the time for your conjuring tricks. Understood?"  
"Clearly.”  
John caught up with them. "What is going on?" Sherlock cast a quick glance at the DI. She nodded at him.  
"We'll be leaving for London shortly. This case is over."  
"Any chance of sharing your findings?"  
"Shortly."  
"What about the funeral? Agnes and Marianne need our support. "  
"There will no funeral for Andrew Reynard," announced DI Spencer-Harris.  
"Why not?"  
"Because there is little point having a funeral for someone who has not died," replied Sherlock.  
"That's rich coming from you," snapped John. "Really? What the fuck is going on?" They watched the implications drop into his head, one by one. “What do I tell Agnes and Marianne?”  
“Nothing, as of yet,” replied the DI. “The full reasoning behind Reynard’s actions remain somewhat unclear, although evidence is amassing. I expect events are about to come to a head, for good or otherwise."  
John looked around. “Hell.” He spotted the Reynards out of the corner of one eye, but daren’t acknowledge them. He also noticed other significant absentees. “And Mycroft?”  
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Reynard has him.”  
“What?”  
“Better him than you.”  
“I don’t understand.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. He felt like shaking John, but let his hands hover an inch from his shoulders instead.  
“Our collective concern for your welfare singled you out in Reynard’s eyes. He clearly - and rightly- believed that your disappearance would divert my attention from the investigation when the deception was uncovered. His error lies in the idea that you would be allowed to behave so recklessly.“  
“OK…” replied John was struggling to keep up with the logic. “ But what proof do we have that Reynard’s alive?”  
“We have proof that that he’s not dead. Molly’s autopsy this morning uncovered that the corpse originally identified as Reynard could not have been him due to the presence of an artificial hip joint. This was documented onto the cloud just before an explosion which severely damaged Newmarket police station earlier this morning. The physical evidence is gone, but the electronic record remains.”  
“Christ. How are they?”  
“Relatively unscathed, but they’re going to be incommunicado for the next few hours while the scene and witnesses are processed, which is just as well. Reynard is unbalanced to say the least, and he’s spoiling for a showdown. He may well turn up here.”  
“So... what do we do now?” asked John. “I take it the local force has been informed?”  
“Mycroft’s involvement means that this is beyond their remit. An extraction team will be here presently who will act under my supervision, co-ordinated by Anthea.”  
“And our role will be?” asked Sherlock.  
“Watching, waiting, listening. “ Spencer-Harris produced a tangle of wires and handed them to him. “Here are your worms. They will stay in your ear until future notice. Report to Anthea and wait for further instructions.”  
“Yes Ma’am,” he replied, unusually meek  
Spencer Harris turned to John. “ Earlier this morning, Mycroft was injected with a nanotracker which has enabled us to monitor his location and health status - pulse, respiration and BP. Your monitoring and interpretation of these will be vital.”  
“Of course, “ John blinked. “So I take it that the Met was just your day job?”  
DI Spencer-Harris grinned briefly. “Says the only A&E locum with a perfectly legal handgun in his cabinet.”  
“Busted. So where do you want us?”  
“This way.” She led them through to the back office. “And don’t worry about Agnes and Marianne. They’ll be protected.”  
“They’d better be,” growled John.

\---  
Anthea handed the gun to Martin. "Stay with the Reynards. Be prepared to use this. Keep in contact."  
Her voice and eyes stayed professional, but her hand lingered over his for a second longer than his.

"Certainly. What do I tell them?"  
“As little as possible. They are unaware of the current situation, and I would prefer to keep it that way. Best stay away from the windows. There's a priest hole in the alcove of Mrs Reynard's room. Big enough for at least two. Not exactly a panic room, but it will serve if needs must."  
"Understood.” He slipped the gun into the holster under his arm and turned to go.  
Anthea brushed a hand down his sleeve. "Remember. Brain in head, head on shoulders."  
The briefest of grins appeared on his face. “I’ll do my best."  
The door opened behind them. Sherlock and John let him pass before they entered.  
\---  
“What’s happening?” Marianne’s seemed strangely calm. “I thought we were supposed to be going into Cambridge.”  
Martin thought quickly. “Unfortunately there’s been a change of plan. I have been asked to stay here in case I am needed, in the absence of Mr Holmes, who has been unexpectedly called away. Before he left, he requested that I ensure your comfort and safety.” Only half a lie. The order had come from Anthea, but he knew its true source.  
“Are we in danger?” she asked, out of earshot of Agnes.  
“I regret that I am not at liberty to respond to that question,” he replied.  
Marianne tried to smile at him. It made no sense to be angry at someone attempting to do his job. “I recognise that tone. It’s not the first time I’ve had to adapt my plans,” she admitted. “Where would you prefer us to be?”  
“Upstairs. I can organise some tea if you would like.”  
“Thank you. “ She watched him head towards the bar, then turned to Agnes. “ Please come upstairs. I’d like to talk to you.”  
Agnes eyed her coldly, but complied. “Following orders are we?”  
“Something like that, I’m afraid.”  
AR + MR safely upstairs. Will remain close by. MC  
Thank you. AM


	32. The weight of unexpected courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alive, even stunned and failing, he stood between Reynard and those he sought to hurt. Dead, he'd be little more than decaying flesh. Better to stumble on until they were within range of Anthea’s extraction team, then take his chances. If he could last that long...
> 
> Mycroft is compromised, but there are those who will not let him fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends, for now, but the story isn't quite over.  
> The Unregarded Heart, with which I won NaNoWriMo, is waiting in the wings. I aim to have the first chapter up soon, technology, time and work permitting.

The road seemed suspiciously clear for the past three miles. Mycroft scanned the horizon and wondered. A virtual roadblock on an actual road? The subtlety held a suggestion of Anthea.  
He remained quiet, knowing that there was little else to say. He counted his breaths and the sombre beat of his blood pulsing through him as the toxin spread. An adrenaline spike at this point would only speed its progress.  
They were perhaps a mile from the inn when Reynard swung the car off the road in a swift, vicious arc. Gravel pitted the tyres and metalwork. He turned to Mycroft. "Unbuckle and get out. Slowly," he demanded. Stand against the car. Hands in front."  
Mycroft obeyed, stumbling out and waited. Reynard snaked a braid of cable ties around Mycroft's wrists and pulled them tight before looping a strangely heavy scarf around his neck and tucking in the ends. "Just my little insurance policy. Now you're all set. Keep your eyes forward and your mouth closed. We've got a walk ahead of us. Through the gap and straight ahead." There was a rustle and a click. "Don't think of stopping, or I'll press the switch and they'll be picking bits of you off the branches for weeks."  
"Understood." And so it continued. Mycroft focused on keeping a steady pace, despite increased disorientation and an erratic heartbeat. Each breath felt harder to achieve, as his alveoli gradually shut down.  
Reynard grinned. "Baskerville knew what they were doing with this distillation. Each step is getting heavier, isn't it? You're degrading in front of me. Just as well that it's not much further for a nice sit down. Over the fence and towards the green."  
Sitting down would perhaps something, thought Mycroft, even if he never got to stand again. He readied himself for the sudden heat and pressure of a bullet pulsing through him. With luck he'd be out of it before he hit the ground, and dead within the minute. It was tempting just to fake a stumble and force Reynard's hand, literally...  
But suicide by gunman was too easy a way out. Alive, even stunned and failing, he stood between Reynard and those he sought to hurt. Dead, he'd be little more than decaying flesh. Better to stumble on until they were within range of Anthea’s extraction team, then take his chances. If he could last that long...

\---  
Anthea looked across the desk. "Update, Dr Watson?”  
John drew in an audible breath. "Not good. His system's under increasing pressure. Lung function is failing, and I'm not happy with that pulse rate either.”  
DI Spencer-Harris joined them. "Do we have a clinical timeframe?" she asked.  
John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Difficult to say, especially as I don't have much of an idea about this toxin, but I'd barely give him an hour, I'm afraid."  
Anthea took a breath and spoke up. "There's a couple of possibilities, if we can get him to a biohazard unit in time. Shall I arrange for a theoretical transfer, ma'am?"  
"Yes, but keep it out of earshot for now."  
Anthea turned sharply. "Got another visual." Her voice was a mixture of fear and relief. "Cuffed, potentially booby-trapped, but ambulant with some difficulty. Reynard has him covered at close range."  
Sherlock bounded up and out before John reach out an arm.  
"Stay with him," said Spencer-Harris. "Keep out of sight. We're already dealing with one unpredictable element; I'd rather not add to that."  
"I'll do my best."

Sherlock had gone precisely six feet into the corridor.Perched on the bottom of the staircase, arms wrapped around knees. He glared at John.  
“What are you doing here?” he hissed, looking up with four year-old eyes, all certainties gone. John crouched down, steadying them both with the weight of his good arm.  
“No –one’s expecting you to be rational right now, but we need…” he corrected himself. “… I need you to stay with me if we’re all going to get out of this unscathed.”  
“Bit a late for that.”  
John reconsidered his bluntness. “Perhaps unscathed is an overstatement. Minimum harm, then.”  
What would you have me do, then?”  
“Watch, listen and stay where I can find you.” The defiance he found in Sherlock’s eyes was at once infuriating and heart-breaking. He took a breath, then tried again. “Listen, you high-functioning pillock. I’ve almost lost you twice in the past eighteen months and to go through again would just about finished me off. You will not take another risk like that alone, do you understand. It’s both of us, or nothing, And right now, as this moment, we’re staying here. Capisce?” Sherlock gave a brief nod. “Good . Now let’s get back in there and sort out this psychotic bastard once and for all.”

He took John’s outstretched hand and propelled himself back into the room.  
DI Spencer–Harris seemed briefly startled. Her phone clattered onto the table before she scooped it back into her pocket. ”Sorted?” she asked.  
“Yes, ,” replied a tight-lipped Sherlock. “Please accept my apologies for the disruption.”  
“ You are entitled to be lacking in reason when family is involved,” she acknowledged, and turned up the speakers on Anthea’s computer. “Mycroft’s bug is still operational. It’s being recorded as an auto transcript, but this will help us to hear what’s going on.”  
\---

Mycroft sat stiffly on the bench, intent on conserving the last of his strength. Reynard’s hand twitched as he felt the vibration of his phone, but ignored it. He bounced onto the seat next him and grinned like a child at the seaside. ”Such a lovely inn, this, such a pretty garden. But we’ve not come for the view. “Time for some company.” He lifted his gun into the air.

\---

Martin eyed the window. “Miss Reynard, please come away from there. I can pour you some tea, ” he offered.  
She did not move. “Not thirsty, thanks.”  
“Please come and sit down.” Marianne’s turn. Her voice was on the edge of breaking.  
Agnes gave her a sideways look. “From what or from whom are we being shielded?” she demanded. “On whose orders?”  
“Mr Holmes and DI Spencer–Harris requested my presence,” replied Martin. This was no lie. ”They have significant concerns about your safety.”  
“From whom?” she repeated.  
Martin looked beyond her and noticed the two figures emerging from the wood.He hesitated until he felt her eyes burn through him. “I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to say.”  
Agnes sighed. There was little point in arguing with a minion, however polite. She turned towards the sofa where her mother perched.  
A shot rang out. The window shattered. Martin tackled Agnes to the floor as the bullet caught his head and embedded itself in the rug. Marianne screamed. She crawled across the floor and pushed Martin to one side, dislodging his gun, which spun uselessly towards the door of the priest hole. Agnes watched it for a moment, then scrambled up.  
“W-what should I do?” whimpered Marianne as she hovered over him.  
“Check his pulse, Mum.”  
“Found it,”she replied.  
“Right, let’s see if we can move him into a better position, and mind that glass.”  
\---  
John and Sherlock tore up the stairs to Marianne’s room, and found the door locked.  
“Agnes? Marianne?” shouted John. ”What’s happened?”  
“Crieff’s been caught by a bullet. Head injury. We’re fine,” replied Agnes as she unlocked the door.  
The door flew open. John skidded down to kneel beside Martin to assess the damage. He looked over to the women. “Looks worse than it is,“ he reassured them. “Bit of a mess, but nothing permanent. 

“What do you need?” asked Sherlock. 

“You. Down here. Keep him on his side. Marianne, get me a clean towel.”  
“Here.”  
He continued giving his orders. “Sherlock. Keep this pressed against the wound. Constant gentle pressure.”  
“Why me?”  
“Your hands are bigger. They’ll cover the whole area without stressing the edges.” He lifted one of Martin’s eyelids in turn. Relatively unresponsive, with some asymmetry on the wounded side. Not brilliant, he thought, but not lethal.  
Then Sherlock was there, his hands, caging the wound with confident hands, observing how the blood seeped into the towel and across his fingers.He increased the pressure, determined not to let Crieff die beneath his hands.  
John looked over his shoulder at Agnes. “Sure you’re OK?”  
“Ish,“ she responded. “Nothing major.”  
\--  
Reynard’s patience drained away. He had expected more of a response than this. Time to raise the stakes.  
“You’ve got twenty seconds, Marianne, to get down here and face me like the lying bitch you are,” he bellowed. “Or I get trigger happy and start with his arms. Or his legs.”  
Marianne turned grey, unable to comprehend what she had just heard. Agnes froze. John saw the trust in her eyes die away in front of him.  
“I’m waiting…” taunted Reynard from the lawn. “Anyone would think that you didn’t care. Clearly not enough.” He pushed the gun hard against Mycroft’s thigh and fired.  
The shot echoed across the room. Sherlock winced, but maintained the pressure on Martin’s head. John saw a flurry of grey wool out of th corner of his eye. The priesthole door slammed shut.  
“Go after her,“ begged Marianne. “Stop her, please!”  
John looked across at Sherlock. “Monitor him. If he stops breathing, start CPR. Got it?”  
Sherlock nodded. “Go!”  
John vanished, scrabbling down after Agnes.  
\---  
Mycroft slumped further down the bench, awareness fading beyond the agony of his leg. His pulse slowed, as the dark wetness on his jeans spread. It couldn’t be long now. He closed his eyes and began to think of better times and places. His head drooped forward.  
Reynard’s fingers gripped his chin viciously and forced it up. “Oh no you don’t. You’re going to watch how this ends, because it’s all been down to you and your junkie of a brother.”  
Mycroft screwed up his eyes. A movement on the back steps tugged at the shreds of his attention. A figure in a grey coat, hood pulled up against the rain. Light haired. Pale eyed. Taller than she should be.. Oh, God, no…  
“Be careful what you wish for...” Agnes’ voice wavered with the weight of unexpected courage. “Let him go.“ Reynard laughed. “I wanted the one who whelped you, but never mind. One more bullet, one less ungrateful bitch.” He levelled the gun towards her.  
She held steady. “One less psychotic bastard, more like.”  
Two guns fired. One person fell.  
Reynard’s shot embedded itself in the wood to the left of Agnes’ head. But while his aim was off, hers was not. Reynard slumped back against the bench, his forehead fractured by the bullet’s path.

The garden filled with black clad figures who surrounded the bench on which two men slumped. One dead, one nearly so.

Agnes sagged. The gun fell out of her hand with a clunk. She waited for the ground to rise up and claim her. But John was faster. “All over now,” he whispered, in the soft, calm tones of someone who had spent a lifetime walking battlefields. He span her round so that she could find refuge in his shoulder, the better to fend off impending shock. John’s hand smoothed through her hair, the better to distract her. She didn’t need to see the swarm of medics struggling to save Mycroft’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks go out to my friends on here, on Twitter and in the 221b group on Ravelry. This story would have lingered in the Shelter for the Abandoned and Forgotten without your encouragement. I am deeply grateful for your support.


End file.
